


Dark Water

by Jaraaf



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (kinda??) - Freeform, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Angst, Brain Ghost, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Humanstuck, Introspection, My First Work in This Fandom, Officestuck, Past Character Death, Possibly Unrequited Love, Still updating!, Tags to be added, Unrequited Love, Useless Lesbians, Worry, babey's first steps!, hehe.... background davekat... revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-05-23 23:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaraaf/pseuds/Jaraaf
Summary: Corporate shill Rose Lalonde befriends up-and-coming lawyer Terezi Pyrope over heavy drinks. They end up spending the night. After expressing concern over the state of her closet, Terezi introduces her to good friend Kanaya Maryam, and together they have many emotional misadventures. Confrontations, grief, blackouts, hallucinations, plant murder, bars, and depression galore.[5/19/19: i am still working on this!! this fic hasn’t been abandoned, don’t worry.]





	1. Morning

       Rose thrashed in the inky black water, desperately trying to stay afloat. She could barely keep her head above water and every other second had her halfway submerged, leaving her gasping for breath. Her raspy breaths were intermingled with hacking coughs, her body instinctively trying to keep water out of her lungs but in doing so depriving her of precious air. Then, out of the corner of her eye: land! A beacon of shining white light pushing back the all-consuming darkness of the water around her. As she turned to swim for it, something brushed her ankle--wrapped--pulled--  
  
       You sit up, chest pounding, barely able to breathe. You reach for your heart to see how fast it's beating, to see if it’s beating at all--

thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump

       Yep. Still going, albeit faster than you would like. You take a moment to steady your breathing, then lurch out of bed lest you fall victim to the urge to sleep more.  
       A glance at the clock beside your bed tells you three things: a) it’s 4 in the fucking morning (Actually, 4: _13_ in the fucking morning, Dave would correct you) b) you didn’t even set your alarm, and c) it’s Wednesday, which means you have a day off tomorrow. Thank god.  
       Well, no going back to sleep now. There are a few things you suppose you could do to pass the time, of which you will do one. You pad into the kitchen and turn on the coffee machine. Part one accomplished. Then, you turn towards the liquor cabinet. Just a splash in your morning coffee! And a swig or two while you wait. You grab out the cheap brandy, but pause. You gaze longingly at the other empty space in the cabinet--oh how wonderfully a nice bottle of wine would go there-- no. No wine, you promised yourself. And no good spirits, either. You promised yourself a long, long time ago you would never end up like her. A whole room….. No! Snap out of it, Lalonde! One cabinet, cheap stuff, no wine. Those are the rules.  
       Maybe an extra shot in the coffee, this morning.  
       You place the bottle on the table and stride to your bedroom. You open your closet and look inside. Black suit jacket, black suit jacket, black suit jacket. You _really_ need new clothes. Sighing, you pull out your uniform. There’s not really a dress code, but you wear the same thing everyday anyway so you’ve taken to calling it that. The aforementioned jacket, a purple shirt, and a black pencil skirt. When the whistle signifying finished coffee sounds, you exit the bedroom, grab your cuppa, pour some in, and fill your flask. Fine leather, titanium beveled cap with an engraved monogram, has this funny little design on the front. Very nice. Very pretty, you've been told. You don’t care. It’s high capacity and you can bring it anywhere. (You suppose you’re a little attached to the insignia.)  
       You take a sip from your thermos-- ah, delicious. You slip on your cherished purple converse. They're the only part of your ensemble that's at all disheveled, but you're deeply attached to them. A gift from a friend, you say. Plus they're more comfortable than a therapist's couch. You should know. You've been on quite a few, thanks to your ever so concerned mother. You pick up your keys, turn out the lights, and swiftly exit.  
       Out the door, down the stairs, pause-- was that red stain always there? You know what Dave would have said. _I warned you about the stairs bro!! I warned you!_ You chuckle, then your face falls. You should have seen that joke for what it was, before…

       You get to work with no memory of how you got there, as per usual. The joys of unremarkable commuting. You know why you can’t remember this time, though. Never fun to be reminded of your brother’s death.


	2. God, work.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose goes to work and meets a very special someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! haha bet u didnt expect this! bitch

Chapter 2: God, work.  
       Looking up at the steel-glass behemoth you call a workplace, your nose wrinkles. God. It’s all such bullshit. At least you wore the right shoes this time. Nancy didn’t stop calling you Ms. Fancy-pants for the longest time just because you slipped on those strappy blue stilettos instead of your usual purple converse. Like you said before, there’s no real dress code. You really shouldn’t have let it get to you. Fancy-pants isn’t exactly a stinging insult, although John in accounting has called you a snarky broad more than enough times.  
       Your desk is a miserable affair. There’s not even a cubicle wall to hold a cutesy Hang in there! poster. The one plant you had on there has long since wilted, and now there’s just a pot full of dirt.             You do have a rather nice lamp, though. Small victories, but nothing can distract you from the constant lie-telling you have to do.  
       You work for a firm selling herbal remedies. Natural poultice to heal acne! Silver tonic to cure eczema and battle cancer! Fucking fruit juice to remove toxins. Every word that comes out of your mouth sickens you, but you’re one of the best in the room. You still don’t know if that should please you or annoy you even more, that you’re so good at something you hate. You grit your teeth and pick up the phone. First calls are always the worst.  
       “Hello? I’m looking for a… Ms. Alberman? Is she home?”  
       Dial tone. Eh. Could have gone worse. At least you got through the asking part.  
       At 1, like always, after exactly 42 calls, you take your break in the lounge. 5 dollars gets a bag of off-brand chips and a steaming hot coffee with a quarter to spare. Your usual table is empty, as it should be. It might be the only booth in the room but you are more than threatening enough to guarantee it for yourself. Sit in the corner, rip open the bag, pop off the top of the coffee to cool. Check the windowsill… Perfect. Everything in order. The gashed quarter is there, like always. A new one each time. You always leave your extra quarter on the corner of the table. You can only assume someone with a very hard knife comes in around 2 and mutilates the poor currency. You pick it up and admire it, flipping it over. Excellent work. Neat. Sometimes there are extra embellishments. A pair of red glasses closer to the ears than the eyes. Some yellow paint, sloppily applied but still recognizably a dress. Once there was even a pair of lumpy metal wings soldered on. They’re always different.        This one has black and purple tentacles. The coin is oxidised, the date barely visible--a black and green mess. It looks like it was thrown in a vat of acid before it was decorated. You pocket the coin.  
       You pull out the book you’ve been reading--a trashy romance novel written by Karkat, Dave’s husband. It’s really rather good, but still doesn’t escape the many tropes inherent to the pulp romance genre. That doesn’t make it any less good, though. One of his better works. He’s so descriptive. And his dialogue shines. Personally, you think he would do better as a director. Or a screenplay writer. He refused to when you told him. It was an ill step, so soon after…  
       You’re deep into the tense dinner party hosted by Interrorgator Grimes, when a shrill voice interrupts you.  
       “Hello? Hey, you! Out of my booth! A legislacerator like myself has no use for another warm body in her space.”  
Something pointy pokes your side. You look over. A skinny, bony-looking woman with rather sharp red cat-eye shades is looking down her cane at you with distaste. She’s wearing horrible, eye-burning red and teal clothes.  
       “Excuse me! I was just reading my book. I don’t see why you get to-oof!”  
       She pushes her way into the booth and slaps the corner of the table. Her hand comes up with your quarter. Then… she sniffs it? Her hand shoots out and grabs yours, pulling it right under her nose. You’re so surprised, you can’t say a word. She lets you go, then turns and looks right at you-- well, a little to the left, but it’s the thought that counts-- and grins.  
       “So you’re my quarter-leaver! I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to leave change out all willy-nilly.”  
       Finally, you find your wits.  
       “You’re the one using the quarters? I didn’t think-- don’t know what I imagined.”  
       “Surely not a skinny blind girl? How could she ever make art like that? Why, Miss Lilac Lozenge, I never thought you would make fun of the disabled!”  
       "I--no, that’s not--”  
       She throws back her head and laughs.  
       “Lavender, you really need to loosen up! Let’s get a drink tonight. You’re buying. Now shoo, I need to work on my case!”  
       She quickly pushes you out of the booth and pulls out a legal pad covered in bright red crayon scribbles and little doodles of dragons. You suppose those could be words.  
       You’re left wondering what sort of case a sales jockey could work on.  
       58 calls later (you’re always faster after lunch) and you’re free from that concrete monster. That woman is waiting outside the doors, both hands on her white-and-red cane.  
       “Miss Lalonde, how punctual of you! 5 minutes after work is over. Extraordinary sense of timing! Get it from anyone?”  
       “How did you-- it is hardly fair for you to know my name but for me not to know yours.”  
       “You appeal to my sense of justice; how unfair! Taking advantage of me. Very well. Call me Pyrope! We can get real names down after we get some real drinks down.”  
       “Excellent. I know a wonderful little bar. Out of the way and with very good peanuts. The owner’s a little odd, though.”  
       “Sounds great! Lead the way, Miss Purpleberry.”

       “LALONDE!!!!!!!! I TOLD YOU TO GET YOUR SNARKY BROAD BITCH-ASS OUT OF HERE THE LAST TIME YOU PUKED ON MY SHOES!”  
       You wince. You didn’t need a reminder of that, especially not from such a grating voice as Vriska’s.  
       “Calm down, Serket. I have a peace offering.”  
       You dig around in your purse and pull out a small bundle of cloth. You reveal it to be a cross-stitch of a large black widow spider, with a cobalt blue 8 in place of the hourglass. It’s holding 8 blue d8s. Every stitch hurt to make, but Vriska makes damn fine eggs and is not a good person to have as an enemy.  
       “See?”  
       She looks at it skeptically, then snatches it out of your hands to admire it.  
       “It’s not that bad. Fine, Lalonde. Consider your ban revoked.”  
       “Thank you, Vriska.”  
       “Don’t drink enough that you start threatening the bouncer again, yeah? I have a very real sword behind the counter and a very real lack of staff.”  
       She stalks back behind the counter and begins wiping glasses. How cliche. You lead Pyrope to your usual booth. Sticky and grimy, but you call it home. Pyrope pipes up. “What the hell kind of bar is this?”  
       “Why, my dearest legislacerator! I’m surprised you don’t know this place. How can I explain… You could get either a cold beer or a competent hitman with the same words to two different people.”  
       “Lalonde, have you taken me to a crime bar? The likes of me will have to shut it down!”  
       “I guess the likes of you will never get to try the peanuts.”  
       “I guess I’ll hold back until then. But if they are any less good than you say they are, I’ll have your head! And everyone in this fine establishment!”  
       Just then a young man puts down a very large bowl of peanuts. You thank him, and he responds with a nervous smile. “Don’t uh, tell vriska i got you extra peanuts, okay? Or would it be, uh, more confident to go and tell her that i, uh, got you extra peanuts. And then tell her to go stick it in her, uh, craw? Like you told her to last time?”  
       Your smile grows brittle. God fucking dammit, nobody’s ever going to let her forget any of your last times. “Maybe. If you want to get fired.”  
       “Oh. Uh, yeah. Thanks. The usual?”  
       You nod, and he gives you another smile before going back to the kitchen. Your eyes turn to the rather large bowl of peanuts set before you. You take one in a delicate hand. Jesus fucking christ you forgot how good they were.  
       “Purple people-eater, are you going to take a break from those poor peanuts? They haven’t even been sentenced to anything yet! At least give them a proper trial.”  
       “My apologies, Pyrope. I forget myself.”  
       You smile at her, and grab a final handful of peanuts before pushing the bowl away. Well, not too far away.  
       “Lalonde, is there anything you like to do? Besides peanuts and leaving quarters on the edges of tables?”  
       “I must admit to a *professional* interest in Lovecraftian horrors. Really though, my one true love is horrorterrors.”  
       “Horrorterrors? They sound terrible.”  
       “Astute observation. They aren’t the kinds of monsters that give you nightmares. Horrorterrors are so much more worse than that! Infinite beings of chaos and destruction! There’s one that, every time it yawns, makes an entire planet’s children frown for the next 500 years. There are many that could hold our whole universe balanced on the tip of a hair!  
       “Anything other than made-up monsters?”  
       “Cold. You know, I used to be into psychoanalysis when I was younger. Used to be a bit of an armchair psychologist! I would diagnose my thousands of horrid little pink stuffed animals with dementia and say that the cause of their paralysis was because of their unloving mother. I think I pushed my…. too hard… I was stubborn. And headstrong.”  
Damn. You said too much. Now she’s worried. You try to change the subject. “Oh, I’m sorry for making you listen to me for so long. What about you?”  
Pyrope frowns and places her bony hand over yours. “Lalonde, whatever you think you caused, you didn’t. It’s never any one person’s fault.” She rubs the back of your palm with her thumb.  
       “Thank…. you. Thanks, Pyrope.”  
       “I think we can trade names now, don’t you? I am Terezi Redglare Pyrope.”  
       “Rose Lalonde.”  
       “No middle name?”  
       “Oh, it’s terrible. Lucy.”  
       You both laugh, and she withdraws her hand.  
       You spend the rest of the night drinking and chatting and laughing. You learn that Terezi is an aspiring prosecutor, but for whatever reason she calls herself a legislacerator. She works in the legal department, not in Sales, like you thought, and handles the many lawsuits against your company. She wishes she could go into criminal courts and not be on the defense for once. You also learn that she’s a Libra, enjoys long walks with her seeing-eye dog Pyralspite, and is really, really good at pool.  
       “Care to prove that, legishlashtatater?” She cackles. “Miss Grape Taffy, you’re on.”  
       You proceed to get your ass whipped. You’d be better, you say, if you weren’t drunk. You hope you’ll be able to remember the night. You wobble up to the bar and slap a 10 on the counter, but Vriska pushes it back towards you. “You’ve had enough, Lalonde! Get your drunk ass home.” You stick your tongue out. “You’re just like my fuckin mom! No… wait…… youre the oppsosite of my fuckin mom… she never stopped trying to get me to drink. Itsh her fault! Gen.. getetics…” You slump forward onto the bar. Vriska shoves you back into Terezi’s waiting arms. “Red-and-teal, get her home!” You think Terezi salutes. “Yes ma’am! I live to please.” Vriska says something unintelligible back, and then you… slip… off….

       Ough, fuck, your head… “Turn the sun off… mom…” A horrible voice invades your brainspace. “No can do, Turkish Delight!”  
       “I’m Korean and black, not Turkish.”  
       “No shit you’re not Turkish. I called you Turkish delight because Turkish delight is purple, just like you! Geez, Lalonde, I thought you were smart.”  
       “Turkish delight isn’t purple! It’s red and pink!”  
       “It’s not?”  
       “Why do you keep calling me purple things? What makes me purple?”  
       Your mind suddenly seizes on a much more pertinent question.  
       “Where am I?”  
       “My humble abode! That’s why it smells like crayons. Also why I’m with you. Do you remember last night at all?”  
       Oh no. She sounds disappointed.  
       “No, I…”  
       Peanuts…. craw…. pool… mom… Fuck.  
       “...Yeah.”  
       “Good! Then I don’t need to reintroduce myself. I hope my couch was comfy!”  
       You open your eyes a crack, then shut them immediately. And cover your eyes with your arm, too.  
       “It’s very… red.”  
       “I know! Isn’t it delicious?”  
       What? You repeat the thought out loud. You realize another very important thing. You sit up very, very quickly.  
       “What time is--ough… oh god.”  
       You sat up far too quickly. Oh god, you need to puke. She seems to notice your distress.  
       “Bathroom to the left, down the hall.”  
       When you return, bleary eyed and with a terrible taste in your mouth, she thrusts a glass of water into your hands. You take a sip then oh my god water has never tasted so good. You guzzle it. Like you’re the Mayor and it’s a can of Tab. Oh, the Mayor… You wonder what he’s up to these days. You set the water down on the table with a clink and finally open your eyes up all the way.  
       “God… remind me how I got here?”  
       “You got ass-backwards drunk and passed out before I could get your address.”  
       “Ah.”  
       You nod sagely, then turn to face her and immediately wince.  
       “Why are all your clothes so bright?”  
       “Glad you like them! It’s because they’re delicious.”  
       Bewildered, you stand up and look for the door, head swimming. It seems entirely too late in the morning. Isn’t there… Something you usually do at this time?  
       Oh, fuck! You're late for work!  
       “I apologize for… intruding on your company like this. I really have to get to work."

       "Miss Lalonde! I seem to recall you mentioning a day off. I’ll make breakfast and then we can go to your house and get some clean clothes! Your rumpled state of dress really brings down the mood.”  
       You’re honestly surprised. Both by your day off and by her continued hospitality.  
       “Th… Thank you, Terezi. Breakfast is much appreciated.”  
       She grins a sharklike smile and pulls eggs out of the fridge. You feel another pang in your chest. You’re really on a mourning roll! You should keep a tally for how many times you think about Dave. Haha… ha… ha… Really though, eggs this time? At this rate you won’t even be able to think about apple juice without getting… Oh.  
Dammit.  
       You drink another glass of water. Terezi stands in front of the stove with a spatula and hacks at the scrambled eggs like they personally wronged her. It’s a very domestic scene upon first look. Two people, one sitting at the island, the other making breakfast. The space appears very nice.. Big windows, tiled floor in the kitchen, hardwood in the living area. A plush-looking couch. Stuffed animals on a beanbag in the corner. A playstation underneath the tv. A big chalkboard on the side of the fridge. Clearly an apartment big enough for two.  
       But there’s only one.  
       Closer inspection brings the idea of a lonely life. The playstation is dusty; the two controllers neatly wrapped up. The couch has one sunken spot in the middle. There’s a pile of empty takeout containers in the trash. The chalkboard is empty and appears unused. (However, all of the chalk is small nubs. Curious.) There are pale rectangles on the walls and quite a few small holes where posters could have been hung up.  
       “Was there someone else living with you?” You blurt.  
       Damn your big mouth. Why can’t you keep your thoughts to yourself? You’ve ruined friendships like this before. You hear the rubbery sounds of spatula hitting egg-and-pan intensify.  
       “John. He cheated on me. When I found out, I kicked his ass! And I kept his playstation. Then I kicked him out and told him to never come back. Plus I fucked up all of his stupid Ghostbusters posters.”  
       She doesn’t sound too distressed. Crisis averted, if not by your cunning, then by her thick skin. Hopefully.

       “Sorry to hear that.”  
       God, and you don’t even have a good response. Great. You’re such a dumbass.  
       You’re snapped out of your self-pitying spiral by the clank of a plate placed in front of you piled high with scrambled eggs.  
       They’re red.  
       When you ask why, she responds “I always color my eggs! They taste better that way.”  
       You’re giving up on her strange color fixation. No worry will pass through your head pertaining to her obsession with blinding shades of red and teal. You suppose no harm will come to her corneas, anyway. Just you. It’s probably good that you’re almost done with your eggs. They aren’t bad, either. A little too salty, but still good.  
       Once you’re both finished, she bundles you out of her apartment and to the bus stop. The bus smells like piss, like always, but the Chicken Man is on, so it’s fine. His chicken is named Bowie, like Dave’s crow. You like chicken-Bowie much more than crow-Bowie. Crow-Bowie was always trying to take your earrings. He was suitably goth to your tastes, but he was also a huge jerk. Chicken-Bowie mostly sleeps and ruffles her feathers when you pet her head. She is very soft. You give the Chicken Man a tenner, and he tips his hat. In doing so, though, he accidentally tips Bowie on the ground and she hops around and annoyedly squawks at both you and him.  
You arrive at your apartment with no harm done, aside from a few angry pecks courtesy of Bowie. You could never be mad at Bowie, though. You take the elevator up to the fourth floor and walk to apartment 13. “Unlucky number,” Terezi remarks. When you open the door, Terezi makes a face.  
       “It’s so dark in here! And so dull! Where are your colors? Where’s the creepy occult candles? Piles of skulls?”  
       “I usually only bring the skulls out for company. My apologies. I didn’t know you’d be coming over. Would you like me to dig them out? I believe they are under the sink…”  
       “I’ll pass, plum parfait! Just go get dressed.”  
       You step out of your room dressed in pretty much the same thing as yesterday, save replacing the jacket with a cardigan. Still black. “That’s what you wore yesterday!” You grimace. “I know, I need new clothes.”  
       “Oh! I know just the gal. She can help you with your clothes problem! She’s a tailor in Uptown, but she also makes her own clothes. And her sister can give you a sweet tattoo, too!”  
       “I think I’ll pass on the tattoo, but that sounds perfect. A personally tailored wardrobe seems like just the boost my life needs.”  
       “Great! Get your bearings and I’ll take you to her!”  
       “Wait, right now?”  
       “Of course!” she says, already taking your arm and dragging you out, “No time like the present.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I promise updates will actually be predictable. Look forward to another chapter next week!


	3. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose gets to meet who you've all been waiting for.

While on the bus, Terezi tells you all about your tailor-to-be.

At least, she said she did when you “talked” to her about it later. What she really said was “She likes clothes!”

Then the bus arrived at the stop, and Terezi grabbed your arm again (you’re going to have bruises, you swear) and yanked you out the doors (you definitely pushed down some women of the Red Hat Society, yikes) and down the street. You went through some VERY sketchy seeming areas but all of the crooks and rich people seemed scared off by Terezi’s aggressive cane-tapping. On the way you DEFINITELY saw some bus stops, so you have no idea why she felt the need to let you both off so early. When you asked her about it after you nearly slammed into your 3rd bus stop sign, she told you it was good to get some fresh air. Hmph. You get enough fresh air on your walk into the Behemoth. You prefer nature through the window, thank you very much. 

You arrive in a very quaint neighborhood in front of a very quaint shop next to a very unquaint tattoo parlor. You suppose that’s where your mystery tailor’s sister does business. The sign on what you presume to be the tailor’s shop is beautiful. A very nice warm yellow with dark green calligraphy pronouncing the place to be “Maryams Mendings”. Closer inspection proves there to be smaller text underneath, which declares it to be“Also A Shop With Excellent Tailoring And Original Clothing Of Very Fine Quality”. You note the lack of punctuation and the overuse of capitalization. Everything else about the haberdashery has a similar color scheme. You see the absolute beauty of the small visible amount of the curtains. Terezi walks you up to the door and opens it. Bells chime, announcing your entrance to whoever might be inside.

“Hello excuse me a moment I will be right with you.” A voice speaks from a back room, with evenly spaced words and little pause where a comma would, grammatically, make sense. Really, she speaks in comma-less sentences. This mystery woman irks you with her non-grasp of the English Language’s punctuation rules. You do think, however, that hers is a voice suited to sarcasm. A woman comes out of the room and into the light.

The first thing you notice is how pretty she is. Goodness, she is… Pretty. For once, you are at a loss for words. (Ha. ‘For once.’) You are absolutely captivated in every way, shape, and form. She’s very... pretty, dammit. Words escape you. 

The second thing you notice is that her clothes are absolutely terrible. She’s wearing an unfitting muumuu with a big clashing belt, and she’s wearing Dorothy’s slippers, if they were strappy stilettos. You’re apprehensive, to say the least. If this is the person designing your prospective wardrobe… You may be better off at a run-of-the-mill clothing boutique. It sounds snobbish, yes (oh, how could I possibly stoop to the level of buying ready-made clothes!), but you are accustomed to tailored clothing and you have the money for it. Another thing to blame your mother for, you suppose, for buying you endless custom child’s clothing.

God’s sakes, you are spoiled.

Anyway, you’re worried and pretentious. I think that’s well established. You are busy bemoaning your poor arm (bruised for naught but a disappointing excursion to a clothing store) when you hear the click-clack of stylish heels enter the main area. You uncover your face with your hand and set eyes on an even prettier woman. Is this store infested with beautiful women? You fear for your dignity.

She waves the muumuu-woman out of the door, then turns towards you with a slight grimace before clapping and saying “Thank you for waiting. How may I help you?”

You believe that other woman was a customer. Yes, that would make sense.

Before your brain catches up to the rest of the world and you can say something intelligent (perhaps a witty remark regarding the previous woman’s attire?) without making a fool of yourself, Terezi speaks up. 

“Hello Kanaya! I have a new friend in need of some new clothes. Can you help her?”

“A new friend? I am very impressed Terezi. You haven’t made one of those since third grade.” She finally looks at you. “Goodness gracious your clothes are atrocious.” She looks back to Terezi. “I think I can help her.”

She is certainly a snarky broad. “I certainly hope you can help me as well as you helped that other woman,” you say with distaste.

Well, you definitely just said that. The words entered your head and you thought it out and said it. It wasn’t a blurt, that’s for sure. It was truly a planned out sentence.

You are some kind of dumbass. You just insulted the fucking fashion of the most beautiful woman you’ve ever fucking seen and you THOUGHT about it before you said it. You’re clutching your hair in anguish. At least in your head. In reality, though, you simply smile a brittle grin and she grimaces right back. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Terezi cringing. This cannot be going well for her. You have little sympathy, though. You are currently engaged in a silent battle of the wits, which requires much concentration.

Currently, you try to convey that a) her punctuation is terrible (really, it bothers you) b) she is unhelpful to her clients and c) her shop really isn’t all that. You may have entered this war mistakenly but dammit if you aren’t going to try and win it. In return, her green eyes relay that your clothes fit you badly, you have terrible etiquette, and you really aren’t making a good first impression.

A voice, similar to Kanaya’s but richer, comes through the front door, slightly muffled. The bell rings as she opens it, finishing her message—but she trails off long before she finishes her thought. “Kanaya, I’m headed out to…” She pauses in the doorway. “Am I interrupting something?”

She disrupts your thoughts, and just like that the fight has ended and the tension diffused, fading into the background like so much work-related stress. Truly a nonfactor, at least for the moment.

“What was that Porrim? I apologize I was distracted.”

“I was only going to say i was heading out to the sandwich shop down the street and I was wondering if you wanted anything. Who is this?”

“Oh,” She turns and gestures back to you. “This is Rose my new client. She needs a new wardrobe.” 

Porrim smiles. “I can tell. So, is that a no to the sandwich, or..?” 

Kanaya perks up. “Oh a turkey with extra sauce please!” 

Porrim smiles. “I thought so. See you soon! And…” She turns to you.

“Good luck. She can really put you through the wringer.

Kanaya sticks her tongue out and shoos her out the door. “Come with me,” she says, and leads you through the racks of clothes to a curtained nook in the back. You get the opportunity to quickly feel through the clothing she’s made. It’s a wide variety of textures and colors, but all very elegant. You feel you are in good hands. Very, very good hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for waiting for this chapter! i've been real busy and haven't had much time to write.


	4. Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose gets fitted for her clothes.

You exit the curtained nook feeling much more amiable towards Kanaya, as she is quite the conversationalist and made you feel very at ease even if you were exchanging nothing but pleasantries, but also feeling mildly violated. In your years of untailored adultness you have forgotten just how much they need to measure. You do say you could have hated it a lot more than you did. Oh, you hope that doesn’t sound creepy… Wait! What are you saying? This is your internal monologue! Nobody’s going to hear it! Just you. Your… brain, you guess? Your brain only. You could think the raunchiest thoughts and they would be none the wiser. Hah.

You amuse yourself going along this train of thought (what other things are no-one else privy to?) when Kanaya waves a hand in front of your face, saying “Rose? Rose.” Oh dear. You hope you didn’t have on too dumb of a face.

“You looked rather silly! What were you thinking about?”

Rest in peace. You don’t always get what you wish for. You open your mouth to reply, when she waves the thought out of the air with a dismissive gesture.

“Nevermind. That isn’t important right now. What sort of clothes do you need?”

“Business casual. My workplace has no true dress code, but I pride myself on being the well-dressed snob in the office.”

“Hardly well-dressed in ill-fitting clothes.”

Ah, she’s back on it. Damn. You were hoping to avoid another jab at your current outfit, but you suppose that’s what you’re here to fix. Still, you thought they rather flattered you! Mother always said you had terrible taste, but you find casual gothic quite comfortable. Agh. Mother. It appears you’re back on it. When will terrible parenting leave you be? Ugh. You need a drink. Another good mood soured by her irresponsible childrearing.

God, you’re pathetic. Itching for a drink at a single mention of your mother. No. You’re having a nice day, dammit, with new friends. Keep up a good face. Stay positive. Bunnies. Kittens. Happy face. Whatever your childhood grief therapist told you to do when you felt like shit.

Dammit, Kanaya’s waving your hand in front of your face again. You hope she hasn’t noticed how many times you’ve had your head in the clouds today.

“Rose you appear to be daydreaming quite a bit today. I implore you to get your feet on the ground as we are completing a very important business transaction.”

“Of course. I would hate to delay any further progress.”

Kanaya leans back and paces around you, making occasional “hmm” noises. “It is much too beautiful outside to remain in here. We can go to my garden and talk about what you need.” She leads you and Terezi, who was almost buried in a rack’s worth of bright clothing, to an ornate door with a shining handle; she clearly uses her garden quite a bit. You step outside into a veritable Eden, walled with sky-high hedges. She takes you down a small pathway made from pebbles to a little raised dais, surrounded by hedge sculpture. There’s a cute little wrought iron table with a swirly pattern on it, like that of a peppermint. You all sit down, and there is a moment of silence while you and Terezi admire the hedging around you.

“Kanaya, these hedges are absolutely gorgeous. Who does them?”

“Thank you the person that does them is me. I sculpt when I get tired of my customers. I use my chainsaw.”

Terezi shrugs.

“These are pretty good, Kanaya! You know what would make them better? Color. I’m talkin’ teal spray paint. Get a charger and a grounder and statically transfer neon red nylon powder. They would look good and feel good! It’s a win-win situation. I know a guy.”

There is a pause where nobody knows what to say.

“Terezi that is the worst idea i have ever heard.”

Terezi sticks out her tongue, then stands up and goes to wander through the rest of the garden.

Kanaya watches her go, then pulls out a small book from seemingly nowhere. You suppose that skirt of hers could hold any number of pockets.

“We have two paths to go down. Would you like me to tailor existing clothing or make you an entirely new wardrobe? I could also augment your current clothes or make a few new pieces and tailor the rest. A new wardrobe would however take a very long time. It would be incredibly expensive.”

Terezi yells from behind the hydrangeas. “That doesn’t sound like two paths, Miss Maryam!” 

Kanaya responds with a wry smile. “You are correct. Forgive me.”

“The court does not forgive! I am the judge, jury, and executioner. I find you guilty of lying through oversight! Your sentence is… Handing over all of your red chalk.”

“The court shows mercy. I rush to comply with its demands,” Kanaya replies smoothly. “However I am currently in the middle of planning with a client and request a few extra hours to procure for your demands.

Terezi crosses her arms and considers for a moment. “The court approves! Continue with your civilian shenanigans, and I will continue with my courtly ones.”

Kanaya nods, then turns back to you. She continues as if that bizarre courtroom-roleplay scene never happened. 

“What will it be? I would recommend you not to choose to replace all of your clothes. It will take a very long time and very extremely expensive. While I am sure you have no lack of funds or time I believe it would be much easier on your wallet and on my time to simply buy and alter new clothes with a few fresh pieces.”

“You sound like you know what you’re doing. I suppose I will go with your suggestion.”

“Yes. I have only been doing this for most of my life. I am flattered that I sound like an expert to you. Being mistaken for a professional is my only goal in life,” she says dryly.

Terezi shouts from her position stuck under a hedge, “NICE SARCASM KANAYA! LET ME COME AND GIVE YOU A HIGH FIVE!” You and Kanaya wait a few minutes while Terezi digs herself out of her hole, stands up, brushes herself off, and jogs up to Kanaya. They proceed to enact a very powerful high-five, made all the more powerful by the minutes you had to wait for it to pass. Dave would be proud.  
(Dammit.)

Kanaya is a very powerful person. You should really try to do it better. You should fortify yourself. You pull out your flask, unscrew it, and take a swig. You are just about to put it away when Kanaya asks to see it.

“Excellent stitching,” she muses. “This is beautiful! Who gave it to you?”

You rub your neck. You aren’t particularly proud of its origins. “My mother had this friend. He called himself Scratch? He was… Unsettling, to say the least. I didn’t talk to him for years after I finished high school, and then one day on my 21st birthday I got this flask in the mail alongside some nice booze. I’m fairly sure it’s from him. He drew that little spirograph on everything.”

Kanaya taps the cap. “This is a rather unfamiliar insignia-” She doesn’t get the chance to finish what she’s saying before Terezi snatches the flask out of her hand.

“Looks like a peppermint with the middle of the swirl cut out!”

You suppose it does. You never really inspected it before. Most of the time you were too drunk to think about its aesthetics. You reach out and take your flask back from Terezi. “I’ll have that back now, thank you very much.” You put it back into your pocket.

“You said it was given to you by a man named Scratch? I had a godfather who called himself that. I can’t remember much about him but my mother said he would tell me stories about a golden city called Prospit. I think he was a spiritual man too. I seem to recall him asking me repeatedly to ‘awaken my dreaming self.’ I have no idea what that meant but child me was absolutely fascinated. I would draw pictures of Prospit and put myself in little golden princess dresses. He said I was royalty.”

Kanaya seems to notice how far she strayed into her past and coughs.

“Excuse me. I did not mean to foray so far into childhood. We were discussing possible alterations?”

“Uh… Yes. You said we could buy new clothes and then change them..?”

You have a productive conversation and plan your wardrobe and the changes you will make. About 10 minutes in Porrim throws (rather aggressively) Kanaya’s sandwich at her and she nearly falls off the chair trying to catch it, which is entertaining. You keep drifting off and thinking about Kanaya’s connection to Scratch. You managed to get Vriska drunk once and she mentioned an uncle who pushed her to do some really bad things and (through inaction, you think) almost caused her to blow her arm and eye out. Not that she would lose much in the sight department; she was half blind then anyway. She called him “that bastard Scratch,” so you’re reasonably sure it’s the same man in all three of your lives. Unsettling, but a topic for future discussion. 

Soon your conversation veers off the path of clothing and into more casual topics. It’s almost dark when Terezi (from a couch in the gazebo) shouts “You flighty broads have been talking for ages! The legislacerator is fucking starving because she didn’t have lunch! Let’s go eat!”

You and Kanaya share a look of surprise, and simultaneously check your watches. It’s 6:12! Kanaya sighs. “I suppose it worked out that I don’t get much business.” She beckons Terezi over. “Where would you two like to eat?”

Terezi responds with a slight smack to the table (as if she were plunging a dagger into wood), “Frank Furt’s Dogs!”

Kanaya wrinkles her nose. “Really? There? The hot dogs are unnaturally red. I don’t believe that it’s real food.”

“The red is part of the appeal! And besides, it’s delicious. You can’t argue with me. C’mon, we’re already going.” She stands up and yanks both you and Kanaya out of your chairs and drags you both inside. She does a lot of pulling, you’ve noticed. At least it’s a different arm this time. Kanaya scrabbles at the walls and the racks of clothes, scrambling to find purchase. “Terezi-! Let me close up my shop at least!” She manages to flip off the lights and turn the lock, but misses flipping the “Closed/Open” sign.”

Terezi continues your forced march until she drops both your arms, pointing at the bus stop. “The bus is almost gone! Run!” You all speed towards the bus and get on, collapsing in your seats.

You made it. Time for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rest in peace predictable update schedule... this early update comes at a price! i'll be gone for 11 days (getting back on a monday) so no update for 2 weeks! my dearest apologies. nonetheless I hope you enjoyed! see you in 3


	5. Dinner and Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang gets dinner at a far-from-local hotdog shop, with a name that doesn’t match its owner.

You wrinkle your nose both at your poor posture and at the smell on the bus. Why is this one so much grosser than any of the other busses? And why, oh why, does Terezi feel the need to use her fingernails to take you places. Your arm stings, and when you pull up your sleeve to inspect the damage there are little crescents embedded in your skin. She marked your arm through your clothes. You shake out your hand (as if that would help at all) and look over at Terezi and Kanaya. Terezi is politely sprawled out, taking up her entire seat and much of the floorspace in front of her, but neglecting to invade either yours or Kanaya’s personal bubbles. Kanaya is rather professionally slouched, with her legs crossed and hands together. She would seem very much the dignified invalid were it not for her unimpeded breathing and lack of haphazardly located arms. You all sit in silence for a few moments, until Kanaya takes a deep breath in and out and sits up, cuing both you and Terezi to do the same.

You thought she was going to say something, but it seems to have been merely a signifier of a shift in posing. The rest of the bus ride is similarly quiet, with not even a cough from the other passengers. You get a chance to reflect on the day’s happenings, to think about who Kanaya and Terezi are and how, in less than a day’s time, you have become closer to them than you have been to anyone in years. 

Instead you choose to think about the in-between nature of a bus ride.

Buses are rarely somewhere you spend meaningful time but they are essential to everyday life if you are without a car. Strange that once you have the opportunity to be alone, away from other people, you jump to take it and leave behind such a unique experience as a bus ride. They can be loud and bustling, with 20 friends chattering excitedly about a parade or a party or somewhere they just left, or they can be a smattering of strangers softly conversing about the newest tragedy. Sometimes it is only you and the bus driver, being taken through so many unfamiliar places to your destination. You move through the same areas every day but so often do you never experience them. You also note how so many strange and whimsical journeys start with a bus ride, and how often those stories are directed towards children, like Dragonbreath or the Magic School Bus. You suppose that a bus plays a major role in many kid’s lives, being what brings them to school; a place portrayed (and often being) so unpleasant most would rather go anywhere else; and that’s where magic buses come in, taking you not to school but to somewhere amazing and wonderful. You were homeschooled, so you never experienced the unpleasantness of public education but you had heard from John that everyone loved the bus. You wonder why, as it seems kids would be inclined to hate the thing that takes them to torture. Maybe they would, if buses were blamed for the terribleness of school, if they were shown not to be the final part of outside life but to be the beginning of school life; if buses and school meant the same thing in terms of unhappiness. Kids do as they are told, so if they were told to hate buses they would because that’s what Should Be Done; what they’re told is normal becomes normal.

God dammit. You spaced out again. You didn’t even think about anything worthwhile! Just buses. Not even therapy, which you (maybe) swore off years ago. At least therapy was something you’re interested in.But buses? Who cares about buses? Aside from bus drivers, you guess. And commuters. A whole lot of people, actually. 

It’s still stupid.

You’re snapped out of your bus-related reverie by Terezi’s sharp elbows stabbing your side. She is not one for gentle reminders.

“Lalonde, are you sleeping with your eyes open? I’ve only met three people that can do that and one of them is me!”

You look over to her.

“Have we, perhaps, reached our stop? Or have you intruded upon my sordid wizard fantasies for no reason than your own curiosity as to my ability to sleep fully aware of my surroundings?”

“The first one, I believe! We are close. Prepare! And having your eyes open doesn’t mean you’re ‘fully aware of your surroundings.’ Really, Lalonde! How insensitive!”

Kanaya enters the conversation.

“Terezi! Leave her be. She appears highly distressed and should thusly be treated like the delicate flower she clearly seems to be. She does not seem quite able to recover her insensitive comment. Have some sympathy for the poor girl.”

Was that sarcasm? You think that was sarcasm. You quickly rearrange your face from that of chagrin (of seemingly offending Terezi yet again) to one of calm collectedness.

“I promise you, Kanaya, that I am more than capable of handling a few missteps in conversation and more than willing to navigate my own mishaps regarding words of an offensive nature.”

“Can you broads cut the crap for like 10 minutes? We’re going to dinner, not cave-pile. Dinner is what civil people eat. Cave-pile is what happens when a small group of hungry neanderthals are too frigid to function. And you both are being chillier than a pair of ice cubes!”

Terezi crosses her arms and continues.

“And anyway, this is no way for two people who will be working for each other should act! I am placing you both on probation. Anything else like this and you will earn a stern whack from my cane!”

Kanaya narrows her eyes.

“Isn’t there a knife in your cane?”

“It’s a sword!”

You mirror Kanaya, squinting suspiciously at both Terezi and her red and white cane. Now that you look, there is a small black seam in the middle— and the tapping end seems oddly like a grip.

“Is that legal? Your whole job is to follow and enforce the laws, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes, laws are wrong. It is up to the judgement of the legislacerator on whether or not failing to listen to a rule is okay or not!”

You’re about to say that no, no it’s really not, when the bus jolts to a stop and you’re almost forced out of your seat. God, is there no suspension in this thing? Or like, softer brakes?

You are suddenly struck with the realization that when cars stop suddenly it is usually because they just hit something.

You’re halfway to getting up to see what you hit when Terezi vaults to a standing position, raps her cane on the floor, and announces that you have all reached your destination. You are led out of the door (by that same arm again, damn everything) before you get the chance to ask about the potentially catastrophic crash you all just experienced.

Outside the bus, you realize that was just the bus (which is actually a tram, now that you see it in genuine light) hitting the end of it’s cable. You ignore the fact that cable cars usually don’t do that, and instead focus on the fact that this hot dog restaurant is at the end of a rickety cable car’s route and that is in the middle of a bog. Nobody else gets off with you.

“What is this place?”

Kanaya stands next to you, looking grimly at the brightly-lit diner in front of you.

“She told you. Frank Furt’s Dogs. It is the least pleasant shop I have ever set foot inside and has some of the most unnaturally colored foods I have ever seen. Not to mention how horrible the man is that works the counter. I promise you will never forget this experience no matter the quality of the hotdogs this time around.”

Her use of “this time around” both confuses and worries you. Are the hotdogs so drastically different in each batch that it’s like a lottery? What is put inside the hotdogs that makes the flavor so inconsistent? What are hotdogs made of, anyway?

You remember that you intensely do not want to know or remember the answer to your final question is. Ugh. You shudder. 13-year-old John was truly a dark-side-of-the-internet menace, no matter how vanilla and easily found the subject matter was. He just had such a way of presenting disgusting topics that it amused you when you saw it, then haunted you when you remembered it. Truly an accursed being.

You walk inside, bewildered at the contrast between the cheery 50’s vibes of the dogspot and the murky, mystical feel of the swamp outside. The diner itself is harshly lit, with bright white fluorescent tubes. The floor is black-and-white checkerboard tiles, with grime and dust caked into the cement and the corners. There is a long black rug leading to and along the counter, presumably to ward off the dirt and muck tracked in from the bog. The rugs squish when you step on them, and dirty water wells up around the once-white rubber edges of your purple converse. The booths are bright red and look classically sticky; just enough to hold onto your beskirted thighs, but not enough to leave a residue, making you wonder whether it was the dirtiness of the booth or simply the humidity.

There appears to be nobody staffing the counter.

You stay at the same spot in the doorway, trying to discreetly crane your neck to see behind the counter or the dividing walls. Terezi marches down the grimy carpet and raps firmly on the counter. 

“CRONUS! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE! STOP HIDING!”

A man in a white t-shirt with rolled up sleeves strolls casually out from behind a fridge, his shoulders hunched. He looks like a total douchebag. Next to you, Kanaya’s nose wrinkles.

“Hey there, chief. Haven’t seen you in here for a while… Makes a guy feel a li’l lonely. Whaddaya say to ditching those two and going for a li’l ride?”

He raises his eyebrows suggestively and leans against the counter, directly in front of Terezi.

When Terezi fails to respond with anything more than silence, he turns to you.

“Hey, cat. You look cool enough. And more than tired of everyday life. You know, I’m a musician. And I’m certified.”

You chance a response. “Certified in what?”

He leans in further. “Love.”

God. Complete mistake. You wrinkle your nose and lean back slightly.

He must sense your displeasure, and turns, somewhat desperately, back to Terezi.

“Forget about her, baby. You’re the only girl I could ever see me being with. I mean, a creative type like me can’t help being drawn to an Ivy Leaguer like you. I just feel the need to help break you out of your prudish, workaholic bubble and into the free life.”

You can almost see the “and by free i mean sexually” emanating from his slimy form. You can’t help but wonder why he was hiding, until you see him glance nervously at Kanaya when Terezi doesn’t respond yet again. Something definitely happened. Did he go too far once? Was Kanaya forced to defend Terezi?

“Cronus,” Kanaya says. “They do not wish to become your friends. I did hope you had learned your lesson about flirting with the wrong types of people? I would truly regret having to talk to you further.”

Cronus moves slowly and grins sheepishly at Kanaya, like a shark caught in headlights.

“Hah. Hey, Kan. It’s… Terezi an’ I are old friends! It’s alright.” He nudges Terezi, who stays relaxedly still. “...Right?” He grimaces, and seems to give up the act.

He rubs his neck and looks back up at Kanaya. “How… How are you doing? I swear I had no idea. Maybe… Maybe it just slipped my mind? Just this once? I promise I won’t forget next time. I’ll always remember it with _your_ friends.”

Kanaya smiles and leans down on the counter, having to stoop far lower than he did because of her impressive height. “I certainly hope you do. And with every other vulnerable woman you happen to chance across.”

Terezi finally breaks her silence. “Cronus,” she barks. “I have had the displeasure of dealing with your counter manners for too long! Get us 3 hot-dogs—I mean hotdogs— and don’t say another word to me or my dear colleagues.”

He sulks, seemingly beaten, and pushes himself into a standing position before moving to the case of hotdogs, endlessly rolling, stuck between a pair of metal rods. Oh, you’re really glad you didn’t say that aloud. You’ve only spoken three words to him and you already know exactly what his response would be. He plucks three hot dogs out from their prisons and places them inside of three hotdog buns before handing them all to Terezi and grumbling “Six fifty.” You’re fairly sure he sticks out his tongue at her while she rifles in her pockets for the money.

Terezi hands over the money and you walk to one of the booths. Kanaya complains, “Why is there never anyone else staffing the counter?”

Terezi answers, “He’s the only one that works here.”

You notice how you are the only people in the shop, and inquire how he stays in business.

“His dad’s dripping with money and this is the only way he can keep Cronus out of his hair. Since Dualscar runs a record company, Cronus always bugs him about getting his music professionally published.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve come here too often late at night and had to let him cry on my shoulder for a while.” She grimaces.

You look at Kanaya. “What happened between you and him? He seemed kinda... scared of you.”

“He simply flirted with the wrong people and I decided to take action. That is all it is. All it was.”

You nod, frown, and take a closer look at your hotdog. You can get a better idea of its color, now that it’s not hidden behind yellow-stained glass.

It is bright red. Blinding red. The kind of red that a smarter caveman would know not to eat because of its eye-inflaming poisonosity. It shines lightly purple in the light, the way a freshly-waxed car does after having a bucket of dark red wine thrown over it. You sniff it gingerly. Smells... hotdoggy.

“Quit investigating, Miss Lalonde, and just eat it! No matter how questionable the contents.”

You roll your eyes and take a tentative bite. The casing pops under your teeth.

This flavor rivals that of the peanuts. Not that it tastes like them, of course, it’s simply just as good--if not better. You thank your small stomach; if you had been able to eat anything else, you’re sure you would have devoured two more, which would have wreaked havoc on your digestive system. That does not stop you from (neatly) demolishing your ‘dog.

Terezi sets down her hotdog. “Jesus Christ, Lalonde. Do you do this every time you eat food?”

You grunt. “I didn’t eat your eggs like this.”

“That’s because you were hungover and unable to fully attack your food.”

“No, it’s because they were terrible.”

She places a hand over her chest in mock offense. (You’re really getting used to seeing that look on her face.) “I can’t believe you! Insulting my cooking. Why, one could almost think that you were insulting one’s blindness! After all, a blind girl couldn’t possibly read a cookbook.”

You glare up at her. “One could shut up and let me eat my hotdog in peace.” You finish off the last few bites, wipe off your hands (rather daintily, if you do say so yourself), and resume proper posture, expecting another jab once you’re done. 

But no response comes. Instead, Terezi is sitting still, looking out the window. 

Dear me, did you go too far? What you said was far too harsh. Much too mean. Everything you said! You even grunted at her. My, what mother would say. What you would say. 

You resist the urge to put your head in your hands. You refuse to show weakness in front of Kanaya. Instead, you silently grip the underside of the table, in anger at your dumbassery. What can you say? Would an apology even fit here? Would you just hurt her feelings more? You’ve only known her a few days. Of course you can’t jab at her so much! You’re still in the withering niceties stage, no matter how much Terezi makes it seem you’re not. You wouldn’t dream of calling her a bitch. Couldn’t even think of it. 

All three of you sit in silence. Kanaya sips her beverage awkwardly. The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Terezi breaks the quietness with a deep breath in and out. She glances down at all of your hands (you can’t fathom why she would need to look), sniffs deeply, and says in a subdued manner, “Are you ladies done? It’s late. All of us should get home.”

She leads you all outside to the stop, and miraculously the cable car is right there. The ride back is a quiet one, with only the gentle rocking of the cable car along its tracks keeping it from total silence. You all stand, even though there are multiple seats open.

You arrive home with little to no memory of the transit necessary. The joys of unremarkable commuting. You suppose you were in too much of a crisis to appreciate the atmosphere a rickety tram creates. You pour yourself a few glasses of wine and go to bed, thoroughly exhausted and only a little bit tipsy. And definitely embarrassed by your actions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you’ve enjoyed so far and i’ll be sure to apply it in the future!  
> ps: cronus is One of the mistakes


	6. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A third-person chronicle of the ride home for Terezi and Kanaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yet another late update! this time i just forgot to post it, then went camping for two days. enjoy! and as always, i welcome feedback.

Kanaya watches Terezi wave Rose off the car. Terezi walks back to her seat and slumps down.

“Don’t,” she warns. 

“You have it bad,” Kanaya simply muses. “Worse than I had for Vriska.”

Terezi whips around to face Kanaya.

“How can you even tell?” She seethes. “I think I was hiding it amazingly! I didn’t try to impress her with my law skills, I showed wonderful restraint in not trying to get her to meet my lizard, I didn’t take her to a stupid fancy restaurant…” She ticks off reasons on her fingers why she doesn’t have an obvious crush.

“It’s very clear to me.”

Terezi throws up her hands. “What? Why!”

“First of all you haven’t denied having a crush. Second you took her to dinner twice in two days. Thirdly--I cannot fathom why on earth you do this when you like someone--you made no less than two ‘offend the blind girl’ jokes with her in my company and I have no doubt you did it more in the day and a half you have known her.”

“I do not do that when I like someone!”

“You did it to John.”

“I do it to everyone else, too! I’ve told Karkat, Dave… uh…”

Terezi realizes, angrily, that she does in fact do it to everyone she flirts with. “Dammit, you’re right.” She slumps back in her seat, arms crossed.

Kanaya continues. “But you usually only do it once. Using it more than a few times implies a certain seriousness that appears to have been lacking in your other romantic pursuits. Or maybe more genuine feelings?” 

Terezi sticks out her tongue. “Bleh. Do you always have to use such big words?”

“Don’t change the subject! Romance is an important topic.”

“You sound like Karkat…” Terezi hums.

“Hush. And--wait, why is your tongue blue?”

“And you told me not to change the subject! It’s fun dip. I don’t know if you’ve heard of that first word, I’ll try to explain it to you--”

Kanaya swats her arm. “I know very well what fun is!”

Terezi raises her eyebrows. “Organizing socks isn’t fun.”

“It’s important to know what you have in stock! And this is _not_ what we’re talking about. You like Rose! _And I do too,_ she thinks. _But Terezi deserves love too, doesn’t she? I have to support her._

“Nuh nuh nuh,” Terezi mocks, “‘in stock.’ And fine. Maybe I do like Rose. Whatever!”

“What do you _mean_ whatever? Just because you want to be a lawyer doesn’t mean you have to ignore every other thing that happens in your life!”

“ _Want_ to be a lawyer? Kanaya, I _am_ a lawyer!”

“Oh god of course you think that I meant to offend you! I know you’re a goddamn lawyer I misspoke! Why do you always have to look for the one little flaw? You’re such a perfectionist!”

“Says you, Miss ‘I can’t sell this dress because one of the seams is slightly off,’ Miss ‘He’s not right for you,” Miss “If I make a mistake it’s the end of the fucking world!’ Loosen up, Maryam! Nothing’s perfect! Nobody’s perfect! You’re not perfect! I’m not perfect! Chill the fuck out, Kanaya! We’re all useless!”

“You might be useless but I most certainly am not,” Kanaya says coldly. “I own a store do you know how much work that takes? I’m not useless. All I do is work all day every day.”

“Stop acting like you’re better than me! I know you have an entire fucking business and I’m just a lowly corporate shill. I can’t decide what I do. Every move I make is dictated by my horrible fucking boss. I’m only my own woman on the 2 out of 30 days I get off! You can make your own decisions about your job because you’re your own boss!”

“At least you get days off! I have one other coworker do you think that gives me free time? If I’m not in the shop trying to sell things I’m at home or in the back working on my clothes orders. You don’t have to worry every single day about whether your place of employment will even exist tomorrow. You don’t have to spend hours each night agonizing over bills and rent and mortgage in a place you don’t even live in. You don’t have to feel the constant guilt that comes from your sister paying half your bills so your fucking pet project can stay open when she’s barely better off than you are. I’m in a panic every waking hour of my life there is never a moment where I am not thinking about the future of my boutique. Nobody even notices how stressed I am! Nobody asks ‘Is Kanaya OK? She hasn’t been looking well. She hasn’t been acting very happy. She doesn’t seem alright.’ I’m made of unwell feelings right now and I still have to help everyone I see! I’m a damn doormat that’s so eager to please I would walk on myself to make someone else happy.”

Kanaya slumps back in her chair and stares up at the ceiling. She mutters, “I’m going to die in my thirties.” She runs her fingers through her curls.

“Kanaya…” Terezi starts to console her friend like the heated argument-turned-misery-contest they just had never happened. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

Kanaya barks out a laugh. “Years. Since we were 13. I’ve been like this forever. Do you have any idea about the shit I went through to keep myself and our group together? I wasn’t even la leader and I still ran myself into the ground. At this point I’m so good at balancing the ever-present stress goblins in my brain with the ever-present goblins in real life I guess I look like I have it together. I don’t, Terezi. I’m not ok.” She finishes sadly.

Terezi notices tears rolling down her cheeks. She pulls Kanaya close into a hug. “It’s okay. You’re going to be ok. I’ll help you. I’ll talk to everyone, ok? It’s alright. You’ll be alright.”  
They sit together quietly, Terezi like a rock Kanaya desperately clings to. Terezi softens, slumping to match Kanaya’s form. They rock gently back and forth as the cablecar turns corners and moves on its track.

“Terezi?” Kanaya mumbles. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

Terezi rubs Kanaya’s shoulder. “I’m sorry too. It’s okay.”

Kanaya continues quietly. “You’re right. I am a perfectionist. I do need to calm down. But,” Kanaya pokes her gently in the chest. “You do still need to confront your feelings with Rose.

Terezi sighs. She’ll give it to her, Kanaya’s dogged. Even after an argument and a breakdown she still keeps her goal in sight. “I guess. Next time, though, we aren’t doing relationships on a trolley. Not even in the slightest.”

Kanaya’s thankful that there’s nobody else in the car. What a scene they made! Abhorrent manners, but sometimes it’s necessary to talk and to get into emotions. Sometimes things just can’t wait.

Okay, it probably could have waited this time. But what if it couldn’t! Huh? What about then?

They sigh in unison, but don’t acknowledge their synchronization. They sway to a stop in front of Terezi’s apartment building. Kanaya waves her out, then turns and stares out the window all the way home. She thinks of nothing but her surroundings, temporarily engulfed in the moment, unthinking. They both sleep soundly that night, thoroughly exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you liked and what you disliked here! third-person is kinda unfamiliar to me, so i would gladly accept any and all pointers. i am also inexperienced in writing arguments, so that’s there too. tips on staying in character in heated moments? thanks!
> 
> thanks for reading, see you next weekend!


	7. Another Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day disrupted.

Rose opens her eyes and sees nothing but inky blackness all around her. Her eyes sting and it feels like an elephant is clinging to her and giving her a bear hug, pulling her down and squeezing her breath out. Her lungs ache and dimly, she realizes she is underwater. She finds the strength to stroke: one, two, three, and breaks the surface of the churning black seas she was trapped in. She takes gasping, shuddering breaths as she whips around in the icy cold looking for… Looking for… Land? A boat? That can’t be it. There’s nothing for miles, tens of miles, hundreds even. Adrift in an endless dark ocean with no hope. Nothing to cling to, nothing to look for, nothing to get found by. _Why even fight it?_ she thinks resignedly. She stops moving even before her limbs fail her and sinks beneath the waves. Her last view is that of an unforgiving grey sky, and even that is soon swallowed by the all-encompassing darkness she has submerged herself in. She breathes in.

You come awake slowly this time, aware of your surroundings before you even open your eyes. You crack them slowly, blinking once then twice. You stare at the blank grey ceiling for a moment before thought comes to your brain.

What the hell was that? You just… Gave up.

You scour your memories of recent events and nothing indicates a willingness or a reason to let go. You certainly haven’t been feeling very terrible lately. Usually that dream (nightmare, really) ends with a hope dashed and the resulting panic, not just general hopelessness. You’re baffled as you try to understand it, until you * _snap_ * and remember your resolution not to analyze dreams. You’d lost sleep as a teen trying to figure out what corresponded to what, if a hammer in a passerby’s hand meant your death by someone you least expect, or even by someone you didn’t even know. For ages you though that the recurring theme of disjointed locations meant that the size and maze-like-ness of your house was giving you some sort of personality disorder. You started unconsciously adopting different manners of speaking and acting at different points in the day in a subconscious bid for legitimate mental illness. You eventually blamed nearly all of your other mental health problems on a disorder that wasn’t there (and was grossly misinterpreted). Dream analysis has caused great distrsss in your life and wasted a lot of your and everyone else’s time. You’re glad that at least you kept your silliness to pesterchum, and that none of your friends felt it necessary to screenshot your conversations. You hope… Agh. Off track. You’re busy being miffed at your penchance for interpreting your brain’s filing system and how wimpy dream-you was.

You’re annoyed at yourself! Normally it ends with a fight, a struggle. Normally you are unwilling to sink beneath the waves. Normally— bah. You catch yourself. Normally, normally, normally. It’s just dreams, it’s just your brain trying to process the day, blah blah blah. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s pointless, useless, meaningless. Don’t get yourself all twisted up, Lalonde.

You take a deep breath in, and stare vindictively at the ceiling for no other reason than that you’re ticked off and it’s the only thing in your line of sight. You close your eyes and exhale forcefully through your nose; throwing off your subtly designed purple duvet, you sit up and gracefully toss yourself out of bed.

You tumble off the bed in a somewhat ungraceful manner. You stand up and brush your lacy black and purple nightgown off. It’s a rather nice affair; there’s black and purple stripes on the top, and it cinches at the waist with a skull held by a gold string. It’s very comfortable. 

You glance at your calendar and frown. Damn. Another work day. You know your schedule by heart, but you’re still disappointed when you see “work” on the calendar. 

You groan and run your hand through your hair as you make your way to the wardrobe-ifier. You smile sadly at the homemade sign, green ink on printer paper that proudly declares your standalone closet “wardrobifier!! :D” The paper’s ripped and creased from moving, a memento of a relationship past, unbeknownst to your current residence. You open the doors and pluck out your usual ensemble. You stare distastefully at the cheap shininess of the jacket you’ve picked out. You can’t wait until you get your clothes from Kanaya. 

Mmgh, Kanaya.

You— You spent some time fretting before you went to bed. Well. You prefer to call it “assessing the days decisions.” Regardless, you came to the conclusion that you had been too harsh on both Terezi and Kanaya. You were terribly rude to her last night! Unforgivably so. You worry the edge of your skirt thinking about it. You really hope Terezi doesn’t hate you. And as for Kanaya! She’s perfectly nice. You’re being hostile for no good reason. Oh, but she’s such a snarky b— nope! Nope, nope, nope. You’re going to be nice. You resolve to. You’re still in the ass-kissing part on the familiarity stage, remember that. You’ve grown. You’re not that stubborn brat you were when you were 13. You can recognize when you make mistakes while you’re making them. You like to think so, anyway.

You make your way to the kitchen and plop two halves of a bagel in the toaster. You mill about as you wait for your breakfast to toast, and settle in front of the liquor cabinet. You reach for your flask to refill it but— It’s still mostly full. You stare bewildered at the leather sack in your hand. You didn’t drink it all? You— hmm. Alright. Whatever. You top it off and place it in your inside pocket.

The toaster dings, and you go and fetch your bagels. You slather them in butter and smear peanut butter on half of each slice. You put them together, peanut to peanut. You guess you could just peanut up one side, but you could also throw your fucking bagel in the trash. All or nothing. It’s like a hardcore compromise. Half butter, half peanut, but ridiculous amounts of both. You take a bite. Mmhm, that’s good. The peanut butter sticks in your gums and to your teeth, and it oozes out of the side of the bagel, but’s it’s delicious. Actually, it’s kind of gross-feeling and really squishy, but it’s the principle that drives you. You finish off your unbalanced sandwich, slip on your shoes, and head out the door.

As per usual, you have no memory of your ride to the Behemoth. You smile and wave falsely at one of the hippies that sells Resonating Aid. It’s ground-up quartz you’re supposed to dust your regular crystals with if they aren’t resonating properly, hence the name. You’ve heard that most other operations like yours are all broke young adults in office wear, selling crap they don’t believe in. You guess your place is special? Maybe it’s the help wanted advertisements. They go less for ‘steady job!’ and more for ‘freedom to make money off your hippie bullshit.” Well. More positively than that. You, personally, were attracted by the high salary, and the fact that HQ was close to multiple bars. You had no idea how much you would grow to hate selling lies.

Your heel-clad feet clack on the pavement (you decided to forego the converse in favor of a more intimidating set of footwear today) and on the steps up to the door. They seem to echo much louder once inside, reverberating off the marble floors and columns. You don’t mind. The hipsters working supplements cringe away from your mighty businesslike form as you make your way to the elevators. Your bastard-dissuading heels silence as you reach the carpet, the cheap polyester curls deadening any blow to a soft thunk rather than a sharp clack. 

Luckily, the elevator that opens up next is empty. You step on and press the _doors close_ button at the same time as your floor, lifting you directly to your destination without any risk of taking on another passenger. 

You exit the elevator and enter your floor. “What’s up, ice queen,” someone unidentifiable says. You simply smile, eyes crinkling in stone-cold rebuttal. You move to your desk and sit down, once again noticing your irritation at the lack of walls shielding you from your cheery neighbors. For some damn reason the ceo is against cubicles (and maybe walls? Every floor you’ve seen has an open floor plan) leaving you all with long tables, phones and computers perched on top. You throw a smile at your tablemate, who smiles worriedly back. You turn to your work, pick up the phone, and dial the first number on your list.

1 o’clock comes around and you’ve met your perfect 42. You stand up but, before you leave, glance back at your poor plant. Shit man, it’s not even half dead any more. Another day and it might be all dead. But— you finger the leaves. They’re brittle, but still a little bit leathery. Life finds a way. You dump the remainder of your water bottle into its dry soil and walk out. Jade would have been much better at coaxing that plant back to life— hell, it was even her that put him there. You decided his name was Gazpacho together, and there used to be a little post-it note that said “gazpacho! :)” in glittery green ink. It smelled like apples.

You enter the break room, and your routine— already disrupted by the mostly full flask and your heels— takes another hit. There are two things wrong: first, the vending machine has a piece of yellow paper ripped from a legal pad that says “Out Of Order” in scrabbly red crayon, and second, Terezi’s in your seat.

You’ve been dreading seeing her all morning, and you conveniently forgot to properly think about what you were going to do about it when you finally encountered her. You’re worried that she hates you, or at the very least dislikes you. She’s sitting perfectly upright in the hard wooden booth, hands on her dragon-topped cane that’s resting on the table. You walk over hesitantly to take a seat, and the moment you are within reach of the table, she snaps her head toward you. Well, a little to the left, but it doesn’t matter. “Lalonde!” She greets you. “I have been waiting for you! You usually get here earlier, don’t you? Why the holdup?” she says quizzically. You slide into the seat across from her and rest your head in your hand elegantly. 

“I was kept back by some pressing concerns regarding the life of another,” you reply smoothly. Sheraises an eyebrow.

“You had to water your houseplant?” Damn. Was your mystical, inscrutable answer too vague? How did she know? You repeat the thought back to her. She tosses her hair in a mimicry of an oh-so-smug member of the upper echelons. “I just… knew, somehow.” She drops down to rest her elbows on the table and points at you. “Also, that plant of yours has been dying for a while and I figured it was only a matter of time before someone’s ice cold heart softened enough to break her routine and water it. That was before I knew you though, and right now it just seemed like the best reason.”

You smile, amused. “We seem to have a real Sherlock Holmes on our hands.” You’re glad she seems to harbor no resentment over your terrible vocal missteps last night. Either that or she’s employing some new passive-aggressive techniques the likes of which you had never before known she could use, hiding her resentment under what seemed to be a forgiving facade and only biding her time before a devastating strike, sure to destroy your relationship and your self-esteem.

Whoa there, Agent Paranoid. Nobody’s out to get you. Chill out. You’re fine.

Terezi stands up. “Gonna go grab my lunch!” She starts off, then turns, squares her shoulders, and says “I’ll be back,” in a perfect impression of the Terminator. 

You watch her go, the turn your gaze table-ward. You notice a chip in the surface of the table and you feel the urge to pick at it. I mean, it’s already broken; why not see what you can do? How much you can remove before Terezi returns? Your hand moves toward the edge of the instability. You twitch your hand back. You can’t. Company property, blah blah blah. Not like anyone would care. Not like that would stop you, anyway...

Terezi trots back just as you start to pick at the table hole and, with flawless aim, sends a bag of chips and a can of coffee right into your chest. “Oof,” you wheeze. You pick up the chips and look at them. “Where did you get these?” You wave the bag at her. “The machine’s broken.” 

She laughs, saying “No it’s not! I put that sign there so nobody wants to use our vending friend.” 

You frown. “That doesn’t seem very just.”

She scoots back into the booth, saying “It’s just if it means all these natural people go buy food from the artisanal kombucha-kimchi ship down the road and make sure those broke bastards don’t die.”

Strange logic she uses. Whatever. You open the bag of chips and crack open the can of coffee, a beverage you’ve never tried before. On reflex you reach for the quarter, but your fingers simply brush the cold metal of the sill. Your cheeks redden; as if she would still do those now!

Terezi notices your wayward hand and digs around in her pockets for something. She pulls out a coin, glinting in the sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Looking for this?”

“Oh— I, um. I didn’t really think one would be there, it was just instinct—“

She cuts off your stammering response with a “Don’t worry about it, Lalonde.” She then chucks the coin into your coffee. 

You recover quickly from your dithering and embarrassingly slow-witted reply by emptying the contents of your coffee can into your chip bag, then shaking the can upside down until the quarter fell out. You hold it up smugly and triumphantly. 

“What the hell, Lalonde. Did you just put all your coffee into your chips?” You falter in your confidence, realizing that was exactly what you just did and it was maybe not the best move in hindsight. Conversation (and the resulting actions) may be a ruthless battle, but, as in every battle, it pays to think ahead of your actions, not just do whatever seems to be the most immediately satisfactory. She probably thinks you’re the dumbest person in the world. You expect her to just get up and walk away, exasperated at your bumbling foolishness. Maybe she could have forgiven or forgotten your experience at the diner but after today it should be clear to her that you’re nothing more than an idiot who can’t think before she acts. It would really be the best move for her to simply leave; good for her and good for you.

She surprises you by staying put and laughing. “I’ve only known you for a few days, Lalonde,” she says, shaking her head. “but that some stupid shit you just did.”

She picks up your sloshing bag and swishes it around, still laughing hard and sharp and loud, like she doesn’t care who’s watching or listening and so be it if it hurts.

You think you kind of like the way she laughs.

She tapes up your bag with some teal duct tape she pulled from who knows where and throws it all into the trash. Miraculously it makes it in and doesn’t break. For a blind girl, she’s got pretty good aim.

You both talk until the clock ticks 1:30, then you both head your separate ways— her to Law and you to Sales. She invites you out again, but you decline, giving some useless excuse like needing more sleep. As if you could sleep longer if you went to bed earlier. No, you seem hardwired to go from 12 to 7, and occasionally earlier than that— but never falling prey to Hypnos before midnight. You’re actually just going to go drinking. Like always.

You clock out and click-clack your way down the pavement into the Magic 8-Ball. With that name Vriska’s pub seems more like it should be a gambling rig, but the only slot machine in the room’s been rigged to give you all 8’s all the time (sharpie’d over the 7’s) and never gives you anything back. Needless to say it’s delegated to the corner, collecting dust—because nobody regular is foolish enough to lose quarters to the Spider Queen’s slot machine, and there’s never anyone new in. Besides, it’s hidden behind a partition, so nobody sees it anyways. Someone must have gone to quite the effort to fuck up a slot machine that much. All for nothing.

You walk in and notice that your nice little cross-stitch is hanging proudly above the little spider-shrine on a column, the centerpiece being a big dartboard with a huge black widow inlaid in the cork. There aren’t any darts, and Serket warns that trying to spike the board will earn you a lifetime ban through an expensive-looking plaque with way too many exclamation points. You guess she values the integrity of her spider memorabilia far too much to risk it on a simple game.

You sit your ass down on one of the blue stools at the bar, rapping gently on the wood to summon the 8-appendaged archduchess herself. “‘Sup, Lalonde,” she greets you. “Here for another blackout?”

“I’m only having one drink, I swear,” you protest. She simply raises her eyebrow and makes a noncommittal noise. 

“Well, whatever you do end up trying to order after this, I’ll water it down.”

You make a face. “Disgusting. Just cut me off if you’re going to do that.”

She brings two fingers to her forehead in a mock salute. “Whatever you say.” She pushes herself off the counter and turns to the shelves behind her. “Your usual?” She doesn’t need to see your nod to continue making your drink, something you have both noncommitally dubbed “The Enlightener”. She pours it into a shitty yellow plastic cup and slides it toward you on an 8-ball coaster. You take a sip and cough. It’s more for show now than anything, but you and Vwiskers (a name Tavros ‘accidentally’ called her, directly causing a threat to fire him as well as a hand twitching towards the giant blue sword on the wall) have a bit of a routine. You don’t always verbally limit yourself to one drink. Really, it’s a rarity, but you need to be somewhat functioning for tomorrow— you have a date (HAHA!!) with Kanaya tomorrow regarding your new clothes.

You sip slowly (you intend to make your one drink last), making conversation between her work. Multiple times you’re interrupted by a crotchety old man at the end of the bar getting increasingly rude until Spinneret (a relic from her LARPing days, something you dug up one lazy night on the internet) rolls up her sleeves and goes and ‘gently persuades’ him to leave.

You’re almost done with the drink when Vriska sidles up to her side of the bar and asks, “So what’s with the restraint tonight? Normally you’d be asking for two more at this point. And that’s on a night where you feel good about yourself.”

You ignore the jab. “Oh, I have an appointment with someone I’d rather keep a good impression on. Being hungover rarely contributes to good conversation. I’ll bring her by sometime; you two should meet.” You can’t fathom why on earth they would like each other, but sometimes stuff just works out. Besides, if it’s a lost cause why not watch the fallout? Or even intensify it… No. You’re not even going to think about inflaming an argument between two of the more dangerous women you’ve met. That would be bad, and not just because you suspect Kanaya has experience with many forms of violence. No, it’s a rare occurrence but… You find yourself invested in their emotional well-being. Engineering a fight would go against that concern.

You’re still going to bring Kanaya here though, if not to see a fight then for an excuse to get extra peanuts.

The Pirate Queen waves you out the building with a friendly warning of “Don’t bring bitches to my door, Lalonde!”

You wave back with a smile. You’re not filled with self loathing this time; for once, you’re bumbling out with a clear head and operating extremities. What a miracle sobriety can perform on your self esteem. And, for some reason, you’re really excited to get your clothes fitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FGFHDGDVF am i hiding shit well? bet u were like “damn. what a good writer i get exactly what they tryna say and they aren’t saying much


	8. Just As Planned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not really lmao

You knock gently on the door to Kanaya’s boutique. _Normally_ , you would simply walk in and slam on the counter, demanding service and cracking the counter slightly with the strength of your blow. Today, however. Well, tonight, really. It’s around 6 or something (you don’t check the clock very carefully) and you aren’t really sure if she’s even in shop anymore since… you feel like boutiques close early? Maybe. It’s the time she told you though, so you have no choice but to trust her… You just have a feeling that she won’t answer the door.

Ding-a-ling! The door opens with a chime to the very unimpressed face of Kanaya. “Where have you been.”

Uh. Your watch says six, right? Not seven. Daylights savings time hasn’t happened and your watch is up to date. You peer over her shoulder and check the analog clock behind her, which says six too. “It’s six, isn’t it? You said the fitting would take place at your haberdashery at six o’clock.”

She facepalms and says from behind her hand, with immeasurable exasperation, “Rose I meant six AM. You were supposed to arrive in the early morning. Not in the early evening.”

Your cheeks redden. What a stupid fucking mistake. God, you’re an idiot, she probably thinks you’re a useless dumbass that can’t even read a clock. Shit. Well, you have to do _something_ to appease her. Impress her with your vocal abilities, maybe? (Ha ha.) You smile sheepishly. “Uh, to make it up to you, could I take you out? I know this excellent bar…” You trail off as her eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Out?”

FUCK! Does— is it— should it be— does she think it’s a date? Is it a date? What if she doesn’t want it to be a date? You backpedal quickly. “With Terezi, of course!” Her expression is unreadable and you hope you made the right decision. “Yeah, I, uh, I’ll call her up right now!”

She sighs. “Why not,” she says. “Make the call.”

You dial Terezi’s number, fumbling your phone. There are several moments of silence while you both wait for the phone to ring. “Hey, Terezi! Do you want to go out tonight? To the Magic 8? Kanaya’ll be there.” You lost your normal eloquence among your flusteredness, but you think the message got across without a plethora of useless words. 

“Sure!” She replies. “I’ll meet you there. See you soon! Give Kanaya my love!” She hangs up with a click and a kiss noise.

You put your phone back in your pocket and, stil smiling nervously, flair your hands like an attractive woman in a sparkly dress displaying letters on a game show to lead her out the door. She walks out without acknowledging your gesture, and you follow her to the bus stop.

The ride is unremarkable, and when you arrive at the Magic 8-Ball, Terezi is standing outside. You think there’s blood on her cane. You gesture at the red spots on her cane before you realize she couldn’t see you do that, but she responds anyway. (???) “Excuse the blood, I was busy butchering a sheep before I came here!” Why? Why would she ever do something like that? What the hell use would she have for a dead sheep? Is she going to make a rug? She can’t possibly eat that much meat before it goes bad. Unfortunately for you, she fails to elaborate on her reasons and you fail to prod her for them. She rams the ground twice with her can and strides into the building. You and Kanaya follow after her.

Kanaya’s head swivels right and left, and the whole time she’s squinting like she’s trying to access a memory she barely has. “What _is_ this place?” Oh no, does she not like it? You better get her drunk, quick. 

“H-hey, Rose!” A familiar voice greets you.

“Hello, Tavros.” 

He trots over to you, clearly excited to tell you something. “I got fired!” This is clearly not good. You have no clue why he looks so happy, even though he disliked Vriska. He must notice your dismayed expression— he’s the only person here who will give you extra peanuts! Also, he’s your friend or whatever. Who cares. (You care.) “No, no, it’s not like that! She fired me, and then she gave me a new job. I’m going to be the manager of another bar! And it’ll be all up to me! I can do whatever I want, and she’ll give me the money!” Wow. That is good news. You tell him so, and he beams. “I’m going to name it the Tinkerbull! Oh- crap, I have to go.” You wish him good luck, and he thanks you and scurries off.

You lead your gang to a tall table near the bar. It’s really poppin tonight! Still, the Huge Bitch herself comes over and leans on your table. “What’ll it be, lady?” She nods to Terezi and Kanaya, Kanaya by a glance and a quick jerk of the head but for Terezi she makes full eye contact. “Ladies.” She stands up and starts to recite the menu, looking bored. “We got burgers, fries, peanuts, salad, uh… Whatever the hell else you want that you can make with all that. We also got eggs in the fridge. What’ll it be?”

“Peanuts,” you say immediately. “And an Enlightener.” Terezi and Kanaya take a little while longer to respond. “Scrambled eggs! And can you dye ‘em blue?” says Terezi. Kanaya says nothing. Actually, now that you look at her, she looks less like she’s deciding her order and more like she’s deciding whether or not to commit homicide.

“Vriska,” she hisses.

Vriska startles and peers back at Kanaya. Her eyes widen and she leans back in surprise. “Kanaya?! I didn’t— didn’t recognize you. How’ve you been?” She clearly hopes that whatever beef they had has disappeared, flashing a huge, worried smile. 

“Quite the place you have here,” says Kanaya, wiping her finger in the grime on the tabletop in a grimace. No luck for Vriska. She deflates slightly, then noticeably bristles. “Don’t you have some relationship to meddle in? I don’t know, break up some true love and a best friendship because you’re jealous?” She makes a shooting motion with her hand.

“True love? I seem to recall physical abuse and verbal abuse in your and Tavros’s relationship. And—“ she gestures at Tavros— “you still fucking employ him? Your ex? Who you arguably traumatized?”

Vriska makes a ‘blah-blah’ motion with her hand. “Whatever! He’s had therapy. We forgive each other. I’ve changed! I’m not the same old Vriska.”

“Yes you are! You still think that was true love! And what do you think you have to forgive Tavros for? Not to mention you _still_ think we were best friends? Really?”

Vriska throws up her hands. Both women are blind to everything but each other. “Geez, I don’t know? We confided in each other? I told you things I’ve never told anyone else!”

“Just because you burdened me with every little guilt you ever had and then refused to even listen to a word I said doesn’t mean we were best friends! You were so absorbed with yourself you didn’t even notice how fucking obviously bad I had it for you!”

“Yeah, yeah, Fussyfangs. Pretend like you didn’t like knowing everything there was to know about everyone’s sad sides. Half the time you fucking begged me to tell you every little insecurity I had!”

Kanaya spreads her hand spit by her sides. You take a swig from your flask; it’s clear your Enlightener won’t arrive any time soon. “I was concerned about your wellbeing! It does nobody any good to keep every little bit of anger inside!”

“That doesn’t change the fact that ‘being concerned’ is the WEAKEST FUCKING ARGUMENT THAT EVER ARGUED! Face the facts! You were just a nosy little meddler! You _are_ a nosy little meddler!”

“You haven’t seen me for years. How do you know I ‘meddle?’ How can you be so sure?”

“So many questions! I know because every single time we see each other--years even fucking apart!-- we have an argument that goes like this! I think _I’ve_ changed!! I don’t want this to happen any more but you always start up the ol’ Vris-Kan drama!”

“ _I_ instigate it? I didn’t-“

“BULLSHIT! You saw me and you decided that you were gonna have a fight! No waiting time, no chance to see if I’m— I dunno, _different?_ I’ve had years to mellow on shit and so did you but it seems like you didn’t take that fucking chance! Once again, I’m the one doing things and you’re the one standing by.”

“You never let me do things! You always-“

“No! No! Fuck off with that sob story BS! Maybe you have changed, Kanaya! I don’t remember you being so fucking WEAK! Remember when you decked me? That was AWESOME! Right now I would’ve been on the ground if you were the old you but now? You’re complacent! Taking action is, what, too hard? Poor, poor you. Oh no, Kanaya has to deal with a fight that she started? Wah wah wah!!!” Vriska leans in, pantomiming a baby crying.

Kanaya reaches for a bottle like she’s grabbing a dagger, thumb down, but instead of picking it up and smashing it against the side of the table (which would be suitably cinematic), she simply rests it there, placing her weight on it like a cane.

She is bent over, head parallel to the table and shoulders hunched, breathing hard. Suddenly, she shoots up, shouting “Would you LET me FINISH?” and christening the table in the traditional way, by slamming the end of her bottle on it, all in one smooth move. It appears that she has made similar motions before in her life by how practiced it looks and how effective in intimidation it is.

“Holy shit, Kanaya-“ Vriska starts to say, backing away.

“All I wanted was a night out with friends after a stressful day but then you come along! It appears that like always _I_ am forced to deal with the insufferable bitch in the group! I never thought I would ever have to lay my eyes on you ever again—I thought myself free and that for once in my short miserable life I could breathe a sigh of relief that I no longer had to to talk to you! But no. Once again,” she hisses out, brandishing her broken bottle slightly in an unmistakable threat display.

Vriska breathes in sharply and marches forward. She smacks the bottle out of Kanaya’s hand and it shatters on the ground in a bright, glittering sound that reminds you of, for some odd reason, shooting stars. Or a meteor shower. “Don’t think for one moment that you can threaten me in my own bar and get away with it!” She says, shaking a finger in Kanaya’s face. “I have multiple bouncers and a sword behind the counter. Get the hell out before I _throw_ you the hell out!” She turns to you. “You too, Lalonde. And your-- friend.” She hesitates before and then stresses ‘friend’ rather peculiarly, sending an unreadable glance in Terezi’s direction and, for some odd reason, it irritates you-- like she’s not allowed to talk about Terezi that way.

Kanaya’s face is heavily flushed. She looks ready to start using her fists but, at the last moment, seems to regain her composure and, with a simmering glare backwards, walks out the door with you and Terezi in her stead. You wave apologetically back at Vriska before the swinging doors slam shut on you all.

Kanaya slows to a halt just a few feet from the door and just stands there, breathing low and deep in and out of her nose. Her earrings twist and sway, catching light from inside like a pocket of stars in the inky blackness of the night sky. You find it strange that you notice such a small detail in the midst of the aftermath of such a fight. It’s like a smoking gun, the echoing silence after a shattered mirror, the dewdrops in a spiderweb-- things significant not for what they are but for what preludes them.

Your breathing makes small puffs in front of your face and you shiver slightly in the cold air. You glance over at Kanaya and Terezi, who stand still unaffected. Kanaya’s red dress is damp at the hemline and it ripples slightly in the chancing breezes that flow through the alleyway. The moon reflects off the wet cobblestones. It seems as if you had been in the Magic 8 for only a short while, then stood out here for an eternity, unknown to everything but the stones beneath your feet. That’s not true, of course; the wind combing through your hair and the light cast on your skin and clothes have a rudimentary understanding of your current positions both physically and mentally. 

Once again, Kanaya is the first to break the silence. “Rose,” she starts. “I would really appreciate it if you never took me here again.” The wording is polite but the cadence and tone suggests a certain set of unpleasant consequences if you were to challenge her request, or, failing that, making clear her endless exhaustion.

“Damn, Kanaya. That was...” Terezi says softly, after another prolonged period of silence clearly after long reflection.

“Do not. I would rather not like to talk about this now. Maybe some other night but not at the current moment.”

“I might be fabricating this, but do I detect a slight hint of embarrassment? The Great Kanaya, brought down by her own actions?” You grin falsely. To tell the truth, your heart isn’t into it but you feel as if you must keep it up.

“Rose. Stop this. I am so tired of us constantly and persistently exchanging verbal jabs. For once could we have a conversation where we are both civil to each other? Can we not simply be friends or is that too hard for you to understand? Because if so I am more than happy to continue this neverending campaign of irritation. Nothing would give me greater joy than to consistently aggravate someone who I have come to see tentatively as a friend.”

You sigh. She’s right; it is a pointless and detrimental habit to indulge in. “I believe that would be for the best, Kanaya.”

You admire her composure in talking to you, especially after clearly losing an argument, even if it was cut short by one of the perpetrators throwing the other out. She is a put-together person.

That fight was _very_ unfortunate, though, very un-well-collected, if you’ll forgive the adjective butchering. I mean, she got slammed and still kept going _and_ even basically tried to start a fight. But that’s pretty—(fuck)— pretty big dick energy of her. You stifle a laugh at the memory of what used to be among your favorite jokes, even if it was a widespread meme and is now commonly seen as—what’s the word—cringy. 

Really though. You were flinching internally all throughout at every misstep, every badly-refuted argument. You can’t help but support her, though, which is strange seeing as normally you think of yourself as siding with the facts, not the feelings.

Your mind can’t help but jump to the least favorable conclusion: you’re going crazy. It’s the only reason why you’re picking sentimentality. But you catch yourself and remind yourself that you’re not a robot and people feel feelings, usually, and you have almost always been in the usually. This is friendship, isn’t it? You support your friends regardless of how right they are in an argument.

Your quick self-reflection is cut short by Terezi tapping her cane on the ground to get both of your attentions.

“I’m never one to ignore facts, so let’s face them. That was awful! But we’ve been standing out here for—“ she looks at her watchless wrist—“like, 20 minutes or something! Might I suggest leaving?”

When neither of you react, Kanaya likely out of introspection and you from a quiet lulling fear of what Kanaya could do if you broke her peace, Terezi frowns. “Hello? Get the hell out of here and into our homes? Earth to Maryam? Lalonde?”

When Kanaya fails to responds yet again (and now seems to be staying silent more for the joke than out of seriousness), Terezi walks up to her, and waves her hand in front of her face. She grabs Kanaya’s hand and attempts to pull her away, and for a moment you feel a spark of jealousy. “Kanaya! Come- _on! <” Every word is punctuated with another yank and she ends up hanging off Kanaya’s arm, pulling with her full weight. Then, quickly, Kanaya steps forward and jerks her arm back, causing Terezi to let go and fall in a heap to the ground. Terezi yells from the ground, “A neat trick, Seamstress, but you betray your intent! You are clearly in a good enough mood to go.” And indeed, Kanaya is muffling a small laugh behind her palm._

_It’s a cute laugh. Light and dainty; exactly what you’d expect. You usually go for the laugh that _subverts_ expectations, not fulfills them, but you find yourself liking her laugh an awful lot_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disasters in duplicate
> 
> also tell me what u want to see more of and what yall’ve liked so far! please! don’t worry about disrupting the story for whatever u wanna see (lmao what story) because very little is planned other than a few main points. it’s like homestuck you can call me hussie it’s okay
> 
> (i’m sticking with my fucking schedule i’m so proud of myself)


	9. Bombshell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I've been crazy busy with school (i've had so much homework...) and I just got sick! I decided to take an extra week to finish up this chapter so it wasn't a 200 word dumpster fire. I hope you enjoy, thanks for waiting!

Ugh… You feel like shit.

You’re lounging in a different break room than normal way before your usual break time (it’s 11) and you are more than a little tipsy. For not the first time, you wish your flask was larger. It feels disappointingly light. You have had an awful day and it’s only been three hours. You can’t imagine going through even 1 more, much less 6. You’ll have to stop off at home during lunch time or _something._ Anything to get your flask full again. You’d even skip work.

It started with your very first call, when a customer cussed you out because “Women should be minding the house, not fucking working. Even at a shit job like this.” Which, understandably, pissed you off. It wasn’t enough to ruin a day, until fucking Cathy came from two desks over (as if she couldn’t talk to you 6 feet away) to shoot some passive-aggressive crap at you about not having a husband, not having such a happy life like her, that she couldn’t possibly imagine living without her gorgeous husband and wonderful house like you do every day, gosh! it sounds horrible. You replied calmly but your insides were boiling and you think she could sense that because after exchanging a few more pleasantries she walked back to her desk and stared straight ahead. Either she felt it or some anger leaked into your face or tone.

Right after that, your manager comes and slaps a list on your desk. “You’re behind quota,” he sneered (which is bullshit, because you’re at the top of the list). “Call all of these numbers before you leave.” It’s a list of fifty extra numbers and names. God. Asshole. You know he just didn’t want to do them and foisted it off on you because everyone hates you and your ‘uptight attitude.’ 

All pretty small stuff, but it added up, and now you’re two inches from drunk in a break room that isn’t yours. Fuck, and it’s only 11:10.

“11:13, actually. You okay?”

Some asshole’s voice intrudes on your self-pity-solitude. It sounds strangely familiar… You give them none of your time.

“Fuck off.”

“Wow, chill out. Not even three words out my mouth and you’re already dismissing me like I’m some sort of useless fool? You’re no queen. You can’t kick me out of your court. I am a jester, here to haunt and make fun of your every decision forever. Oh, you wanna paint that wall that killed like, millions of your subjects and took years? Man, seems nice to be king. You can kill everyone in your kingdom and nobody gives a shit.”

“That was far too many words. You could have just said ‘Wow, that was rude,’ you know.”

“Yeah, but you look like the long-winded type. I figured you’d appreciate it.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m great. Hey, why are you drunk as the ninth circle? You know, hell?”

“I’m only drunk as… Oh, I don’t know. The third, maybe. Not all the way. I save blackouts for nighttime. More fitting.”

“Huh. Okay, alcoholics anonymous. Drinking’s not gonna solve it all, you know. And a guy can only put up with so much drunk moping.”

“Shut up,” you reply, irritated. “Who even are you?”

“I’m your little help fairy! Dropping all sorts of knowledge bombs up on you. Sometimes in the form of rap. I can show you-“

“No thanks. And stop flirting with me! I’m gay.”

“I know. Hey, read my new update, would you? I worked hard on it. Well, not really. It took like 2 minutes but whatever. Extra special, just for you.”

“Wait, the new update? Hey—“ There’s a quiet woosh, and the room suddenly feels very empty, like a presence previously present is no longer. 

“Dave?” You utter into the silence, hoping against hope that he’ll reply in that familiar Texan drawl. You uncover your eyes and look around. Nothing. Nobody. The door’s even still closed.

You scramble for your phone to check the SBaHJ website. You navigate the blinding pages frantically, finally finding the “News’t Strip (for me babey!!!!!!!)” button. Your finger hovers over the pink-and-green abomination for a moment. You press down. The page loads and...

Nothing. Of course. What did you expect? A fucking ghost wrote a new strip for you? No. Great; now you’re fucking hallucinating. Your 13-year-old self would kill to “meet” someone like you.

You take a final swig from your flask, emptying it. You’re shitting on company time, as it were. You should be working. You push yourself up out of the ugly beige armchair and plod back to your desk, whole rooms away.

You round the corner and peek around the frosted glass separating the office from the hallway. You spot something but… No, it can’t be. You step into the threshold to get a better look and.. God, no. You stand in the doorway, shocked at what you see.

Gazpacho’s in pieces on the floor. Potting soil is everywhere, with bright orange terracotta shards strewn amongst the wreckage. The little piece of paper declaring their beautiful, fitting name is crumpled up on top of the pile. The corner is ripped off. Gazpacho themself is chewed up and broken apart, shredded and scattered all over your desk and on the floor. One solitary green leaf sits split on your otherwise pristine keyboard.

You almost break down right then and there, because _fuck_. That was pretty much your only physical memento from Jade aside from cute handwritten signs. Sure, it’s unhealthy to hold on to exes past, but—but—shut up. You kept them and the note. Fuck you.

You walk over to the debris site and kneel on the carpet, silently gathering up the pieces of pottery. Anyone up just walks by, and nobody makes eye contact with you. Not that they would be able to, seeing as how your eyes facing the ground somewhat hinders eye-to-eye communication. You end up with a neat orange stack of broken dreams and a small dry pile of memory-ashes. Ah, melodrama still fits, even after a few years of disuse.

You move to take another swig of your flask, but find that it’s empty, flopping about in your hand like one of Mother’s many martinis. You stow it, disappointed, for the second time in the day. You’re having trouble remembering exactly what you should be doing right now in the wake of a homicide, but if you remember company policy correctly, they’ll let you leave if you say it’s something like a family emergency.

So you do just that, walking over to the manager’s desk, plastic bag of despair concealed sneakily behind your back. “Gotta go, ” you say bluntly. “Family emergency.” He lifts an eyebrow and glances at your concealed arms. Yes! Sympathy, maybe. He nods slowly and jerks his head at the elevator. You wave at him upon exit.

You have the perfect plot to skip work with Terezi. You’re almost at her floor, and there’s nobody on the elevator with you. With a steady, practiced hand, you rub delicately on your waterline to get some discomfort going. You smear your dollar store mascara while you’re at it, and dab just a little bit of water from your crackly plastic bottle in the corner of your eyes. Finally, you immerse yourself in the thought of Gazpacho’s untimely death. He was so young...

You’re well practiced at fake crying. It worked well, especially when Mother did it. Fight fire with fire.

You feel the elevator coming to a stop. With seconds before the doors slide open, you open the floodgates as they slide apart. Sniffling and near-hiccuping, wiping nonexistent tears from your eyes frequently, you run to the center of the office and look around frantically. You glance up every so often and fan your face, just to give the impression of trying to cease your tears. you can hardly see for the water in your eyes, but You finally spot Terezi, a blinding teal blur in an (assumably) smart but garish suit. “Ter-ez-i!” you wail. She whips her head around.

“Lalonde? What are you doing on my floor--” she narrows her eyes (you assume; its hard to tell through the tears and her glasses, but her forehead wrinkles for sure) “Wait. Are you crying? Shit, what’s wrong--” She rushes over to you and hugs you without any prompting.

Ignoring this sudden, genuine display of emotion and physical intimacy, you tell her quietly between sobs, “Get yourself legally out of here. You’re-- well, we’re busting each other out.” She says back just as quietly but bounds more incredulous, nearly releasing the hug, “ _What?_ Lalonde, you can’t just--” You wrap your arms around her even tighter. “You’re taking too long— it’s getting less believable! Let’s go!” You hiss.

She walks you over, shuffling (and with you tripping her more than once) to _her_ floor manager’s desk. “Hey, something’s come up.” She gestures to you, tucked miserably under her arm, head in your hands, fingers strategically cracked to get an idea of the world around you. “I need to get out of here.” The manager nods sympathetically and scribbles something on a sheet of paper. Terezi guides you back to the elevators. Once safely inside, the doors closed, you straighten up.

“Haha! Oh my god, that was _great_. The look on everyone’s face,” you laugh. Terezi looks concerned. You can’t imagine why. You just busted her outta work for the day! Who would be mad about that?

“Rose, are you okay? You don’t seem very… you.” 

Your face falls. Does she hate you? Did that stunt you pulled alienate her? Does she think you’re weird and lame and shit? Fuck. If you say you aren’t fine, she’ll probably think you’re crazy. Well, you don’t like to use that word. But the point still stands. She’ll get even more worried and be a bummer and probably make you even sadder which would fucking suck. You’re taking too long to respond now. Better say something.

“I’m okay! What are you _talking_ about. I’m more like me than ever!”

With a deft and invasive hand, Terezi reaches into your inner pocket and pulls out your flask. 

You don’t register the movement in time to quickly and agile-y snatch back the booze-pouch and save yourself from her investigative rigor. (Who are you kidding? You would totally miss the flask and make a fool of yourself.) She shakes the empty container silently.

“There’s nothing in here, Lalonde! You drank your entire fucking flask in a couple hours; there is _clearly_ something wrong. Spill.”

“No! Nothing’s wrong. I just… decided to see how long it would take to drink it all.” You deliver a swift, concise, elegant rebuttal. You’re the best at deflecting, it is you. 

To your surprise, Terezi simply settles back, leaning on the small railing on the wall of the elevator. “Ok. What bar are you taking me to?”

“Uh…” You rifle through your mental registry of nearby bars with strong, cheap drinks. You eventually settle on Buuze. It’s closer than the Magic 8 but the people working are assholes. And it has a lame ass name. Fortunately, you don’t give a shit.

“Wait and see.” You wink as you pull her out the sliding doors into the grand marble hall.

~

“Ta-da!” You waggle your hands at Buuze. Nondescript entrance. Kinda beige, with the “healthy natural alcohol” aesthetic. Shit’s narsty but MAN it gets you slammed. It’s a blackout kind of night. (Like a lot of nights.) You open the door for Terezi, squiggle through the crowd while stepping on more than a few feet(you’re really really agile when you’re buzzed)and sidle on up to the bartender. “The strongest of your largest, good sir.”

He lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed, and turns to the wide rack of spirits behind him.

While he’s busy, you chat with Terezi.

“This place is awful, Lalonde. It stinks of hipsters. And kombucha. This is a bar! Why is there kombucha?”

“Don’t worry! You haven’t had the… uh… whatever… whatever I’m getting. Trust me, it’ll knock you out.”

“I don’t really want that, but thanks.”

“I do, so cheers!”

Your drink arrives and you raise it in a toast with Terezi, who doesn’t have anything yet but still toasts you with her empty hand. You take a very long sip of your drink (it’s disgusting, but it burns the tiniest amount while it goes down and you can hardly lift the cup so you figure the bartender listened to you) and in the meantime, Terezi orders a pint.

You watch a young bartender try to flip a glass up in the air. It tumbles and turns a little farther from him then he wanted and he makes a desperate lunge for it but misses by a hair. The glass shatters on the ground and you flinch, startled by the sudden noise, plunged into the memory of Gazpacho’s untimely death. You can feel it, see it even! Lisa, or Greg, or _someone_ picking them up and slamming on the ground, in your absence pottery shards and soil flying everywhere. Oh no, one’s coming towards your face! Aah! Just kidding. You weren’t really there to witness the death of a long-held friend. (Haha!) Oh--aw. Now you’re sad.

You put your head in your arms, sniffling. You just let them die. Got drunk and wandered away and look what fucking happened! Smashed on the ground, broken and unfixable _and_ you had already been neglecting them. No! You were trying your best, you really really were. But— gah. Face it. You’re just not up to the task.

A voice comes into focus. It’s Terezi. She sounds worried, dammit. 

“La— Rose? Hey, Rose, are you okay? Rose?” She’s rubbing your shoulder, but you barely feel it. You don’t even feel like you’re in your own body.

“Mmmm-uuuuggh I’m FINE, Terezi!” You try to swat her hand away with an unwilling arm but you miss. For some reason, you can’t see very well. It’s like someone put some scotch tape over your eyes. You rub your eyes to get whatever it is out, and the back of your hand comes away wet. Water rolls down your cheeks as you turn to stare into your drink. It’s dark, so dark that you can’t see the reflections of the bar around you. You feel the bar thump with slamming fists and uproarious laughter but your drink makes no ripples. You feel consumed, swallowed, poured out and filled up with grief and alcohol. Like an empty, useless husk that can’t do anything but feel sorry and drink until she can’t feel sorry anymore. You feel adrift in a great black ocean sinking as your very skin turns to lead. Your self spirals and swirls into a giant whirlpool of sadness.

“Lalonde?”

~

“Hey, you good?” That voice again! The one from… uh… whenever. You’re sure they’re important. Someone pokes you in the head, causing you to lift it out of your arms to reprimand whoever violated your personal bubble.

It’s Dave.

“Dave?” You can hardly believe your eyes. It’s really, really him! He’s alive! “Dave, oh my god!”

“Uh. Hey.” He waves and cocks his head. Tears start rolling down your cheeks and you rush towards him to hug him, but he backs away and puts his hands up. “Hey, hey, lady, hands off the merchandise.”

“Dave, what’s wrong? Why can’t I hug you?” Does he hate you? Is that it? Were those several years of being away from you enough to realize how sucky you were to him? How sucky you are? No! That can’t be! You two had some sort of crazy special bond. Either that or… he’s changed. Why the hell did he leave?

“I thought you were dead, you bastard! Why did you have to go? You left us all! You left Karkat! What reason could possibly be good enough to justify leaving everyone _you_ love, everyone that loves _you_ behind?! Give me a _fucking_ hug! I fucking _mourned_ for you! I read SBaHJ fucking poetry at your goddamn funeral! You at _least_ owe me a _god-damn_ hug! Fuck!”

Dave looks... surprised at your outburst. Taken aback, even. You were expecting him to look cowed, like you kicked his ass with words, but instead, he looks like he’s never seen you in his life.

“Dave?”

“How do you know my name? Who are you?”

Your heart shatters into three hundred pieces at those three words. _Who are you?_ He doesn’t even remember who you _are_. He doesn’t know anything. 

You sit down like a sack of lead-filled potatoes, head in your hands. “You don’t remember me,” you whisper. You look up at Dave (is it even Dave?) in despair. “Do you remember anything? Karkat? Did you go anywhere? Did you die?”

He backs away slowly, like you just pulled out a knife and threatened to slit the throat of his favorite stuffed animal. “Look, lady, I don’t know who you are, I don’t know whoever Karkat is, and I don’t know anything about me dying. I’m just gonna call someone real quick--”

“No!” You cut him off with surprising energy. You surge up, intending to stop him or do something and--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (lmao some shit went down)


	10. okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can’t promise a very regular schedule anymore because of homework, but there will be at the very least one chapter a month. 2-3 weeks.   
> also!! you may notice an upgrade in quality, i’m now getting beta’d by the wonderful duckseamail ♥️!

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and dear god what just happened. You just saw your dead sibling and, what, got knocked out? And on top of all that you feel like an elephant kicked you in the head. No, a pony. (With a heart shape on its ass, right after you tried to give it an apple. God. Memories.) You don’t ever ever ever want to open your eyes. Even the small amount of light filtering through your eyelids is giving you a headache, and you feel like 200 shitty wizards are slamming their ugly cheap crystal balls around your head like it’s a pachinko machine. Your forehead is so sore it feels like a horn is about to burst through it. Then you’ll be the world’s first alcoholic unicorn-human hybrid. It feels like your head is a watermelon about to break in slo-mo for millions of views from 1000 rubber bands stretched around the middle. You’re boutta fuckin’ burst.

“Lalonde? Lalonde!”

Terezi’s voice makes its way through your brain fog. It seems like she’s been trying to wake you up for a while. You throw your arm over your eyes to protect them from the light assaulting them and peek up at Terezi’s red glasses hovering in your vision.

“Thank jegus. We thought you were down for the count.”

“We?” You respond, confused. Who else could there be aside from the other patrons?

“Yeah, me and Kanaya--”

“Rose _Dumbass_ Lalonde what is wrong with you?”

Kanaya grabs your shoulders and pulls you up off the ground into a standing position in 2 seconds flat. Jesus, she’s strong. “Did we tell you nothing?” She stresses.

Terezi murmurs behind you, and Kanaya’s grip slackens for a moment in light of the new knowledge given to her. Precisely, the fact that she was wrong. “Oh. It appears we did. In any case, you should not be drinking so much! I--”

You cut her off and squint around the room. “Kanaya, I really appreciate it, but I honestly don’t have the time. Do you know where Dave is? He was just here... Did he leave when I conked out? I need to tell him something, please,” You jerk halfway out of her arms, taking advantage of her loose hold on your shoulders. You crane your head-pole to look back and forth, aggravating your _crazy_ sore neck _and_ your headache.

Kanaya recaptures you, holding you tighter than before. Her touch is both electric and grounding, rubber shot through with copper wire. “Rose. Calm down. Who is Dave?”

“He’s my-- Ugh, Kanaya, I really don’t have time to explain. Kindly let me go and I will get back to you,” you say, distracted. Where could he be? “How long was I out?” You ask abruptly. If you find that out, you can maybe figure out how far away he got. Dammit, this could be your only chance to find him, ask him what happened, but Kanaya Won’t. Let. You. _Go!_ You finally wrench your way free and just stand there for a moment, glancing around with an ever-diminishing expectation of Dave’s presence. Kanaya moves to get between you and the door, but a glance at Terezi shaking her head halts her movement. 

She answers you. “A few hours? I don’t know the time precisely Terezi only brought me over a short while ago--”

“A few _hours? _” you ask incredulously. God, Dave might as well not have even existed! Your hands find your hair automatically and grip hard through greasy curls as you crumple to the ground with a groan, headache burning and eyes aching. Fuck, you could have _talked_ to him, figured everything out but you fucked it all up, you scared him away and now you’re never going to ever fucking see him again! You breathe in deeply in an attempt to calm your racing thoughts and jittery body to no avail. Words spill out of your mouth without you even trying to say them. “God I’m-- never gonna see him again, never gonna get to figure out why what I-- fuck, _fuck _fuck fuck!” Even the damn word vomit reminds you of Dave. The mere thought sends a dagger through your heart because he’s _gone,_ you’re never going to _see_ him again! ____

____You turn desperately to Terezi, and, hoping for a positive answer, asking “Did you see where that guy went? Were you there? You might have seen him after I blacked out. Tall, curly hair, awful mullet, scar on his nose, shades-- a suit, maybe?”_ _ _ _

____She looks at you with a crinkled brow and closed-off mouth. “First off, I didn’t see anything! I’m blind, remember? But... I never left you. The instant you fell into your drink I tried to wake you up, and then I called Kanaya and she came over and the staff let us take you into this room in the back! I never heard you talk to anyone else. One minute you said you were fine, and the next you weren’t even conscious.”_ _ _ _

____“You… wait. What?” Your mind is racing. You remember it fucking perfectly! There’s no way it didn’t happen. You were brushing off Terezi’s concerns, had a crisis into your drink, put… your head into your arms? And then Dave woke you up, and you freaked him out, and you got knocked out, and now you’re back here. In a small brown room stinking of spilled coffee with vodka, on a stained yellow pile rug trying to remember your brother. Your living, existing, amnesiac brother._ _ _ _

____Dave must have talked to you. You remember it so clearly that it’s like it just happened-- which it did. Totally. It must have._ _ _ _

____But… could it have? Terezi did say that there wasn’t any point when you woke up between then and now… and that she never left the room. Did you dream that?_ _ _ _

____Was it a ghost?_ _ _ _

____“Rose. Are you okay?” Kanaya’s voice is ground zero, keeping your head out of the clouds and in the land of rationality. Right now what matters to her is you. And you need to calm her down so you can get out of here._ _ _ _

____“I.. Yes. I am fine. Thank you, Kanaya.” You smile weakly at her, trying to hide the doubt and disappointment inside you. You’re tired, confused, and hungover, nothing more. No suspicion of otherworldly circumstances, mental illness, or any other speculative unchecked boxes. Your character is set in stone; you’ll save the supernatural hunt for when you’re safely home, free to indulge and away from criticizing eyes. Dave is present, someway, somehow. You refuse to believe otherwise. There has to be _some_ possibility that he’s there! There has to._ _ _ _

____You push your hair back and sit down heavily in one of the stained beige chairs. Leaning back, you stare up at the ceiling and it’s dotted white panels. “I… yeah, I’m fine,” you repeat. Your wording is too casual! You probably seem… Not so fine. Amp up the ostentatious stability! “I do not know what quite came over me. I assure you all that I am in peak form, and will suffer no more delusions.”_ _ _ _

____Terezi lifts an eyebrow. “Peak form?”_ _ _ _

____You huff good-naturedly, rolling your eyes. “Maybe not peak form, but I am definitely not feeling as terribly as I act.”_ _ _ _

____Her head blocked the lights, silhouetting her and giving her a small halo. She shifts her weight, crossing her arms-- and unblocking the light. You squint in the glare, throwing up an arm yet again to shield your eyes._ _ _ _

____Kanaya sighs sympathetically. In your peripheral vision, you see her lift off Terezi’s glasses, push aside your arms, and clumsily place them on your face. The arms stick into the shell of your ear and they’re lopsided, but it’s the thought that counts. You readjust and smile up at Kanaya. “Thanks, boo.” She smiles back quizzically._ _ _ _

____“What does--”_ _ _ _

____Terezi’s voice invaded the frame. “Kanaya! Give me back my sunglasses this instant!” It’s accompanied by the various slapping noises of someone comically feeling around for their glasses. By the sound of it, she’s now managed to start hitting Kanaya._ _ _ _

____Admirably dignified considering the situation, Kanaya replies “I-apologize. They are no longer in my possessiongoodness gracious PLEASE stop hitting me.” She gives Terezi a light shove away from her, closer to you._ _ _ _

____Terezi does a swift quarter turn, not towards but away from you, and points angrily at the air in front of herself, like she was giving the invisible man a harsh scolding. “Lalonde! Give me back my glasses!”_ _ _ _

____“You’ll have to speak up, my dear,” you call out from behind her. She whips around to face you, crossing her arms._ _ _ _

____“Not funny!" She exhales sharply in such a way that you know she's not serious. "You may keep them… for now,” she declares in a dramatically low voice at a much higher volume. “In the interest of common decency. But once we leave, they exit your face and enter mine!”_ _ _ _

____You make no note of the wording, instead choosing to focus on the new, aching pain that flared up when Terezi started shouting. Ugh. Your whole body is extremely uncomfortable. You’re sore, woozy, and sweaty. You’re a grab bag of hangover symptoms, and a few more past that. You want nothing more than to go home and spend hours researching real life ghost appearances. Rubbing your neck, you look sideways at Kanaya, who clearly became much more worried when you almost fell sitting. You sigh and try to comfort her so you can convince her into letting you go. “Kanaya, I promise you I am okay. I’ve come to see reason, and now I know that there was no Dave and that it was just some sort of fucked-up dream or something shitty and confusing like that. I’m okay. I’ve handled lots of hangovers.”_ _ _ _

____She appears unconvinced but when you flash your patented (you have a strategy! there are steps!) puppy-dog eyes technique, she begrudgingly decides to let you go anyway. She clearly intends to attempt to try and unpack this all later, but you aren’t going to let that happen. _You’re_ are the therapist here, dammit! Even if you aren’t licensed, and don’t practice, and if you ignore the fact that therapists usually also get therapists because of all the awful stuff they hear. _ _ _ _

____With a wave and a promise to drink loads of water when you get home, you escape chaperone-free. You thank the stars that they were both busy as hell as you walk home, alone, in the dark._ _ _ _

____Well, maybe not._ _ _ _

____Frankly, it’s a little unsettling to have to ambulate all the way home without anyone else. You’re thankful you look like a sack of shit, and that you also have a small knife concealed in the pocket you discovered in your flask just a few days prior. You definitely don’t appreciate how close you’re getting to these dark, foreboding alleys. With a glance left and right, you move into the middle of the street._ _ _ _

____You try to distract yourself from the looming fear of dismemberment by describing the area around you the way a pretentious bitch like yourself would. Deep breaths. Keep looking up and around._ _ _ _

____The streets shine with a warm yellow--wait, no, a cold white glow from the fluorescents leaking out from behind shutters and curtains. The wind blowing through the street jostles a few stray windchimes hung high up by some hopeful young adult, ivy and morning glories dripping from their balcony. The stars shine brightly up-- no, they don’t, because of light pollution. The sky is unnaturally dark, a gift from the city you live in so that you may fill in your own constellations. The air is sweet with… garbage. The stink of garbage floats out from one of the alleys you’ve taken such care to avoid. Steps echo behind and around you, rippling off the stone walls and ringing on the fire escapes. Smoke writhes into the air like a snake summoned by a flute, the product of a late-night nicotine addict._ _ _ _

____Wait. Steps echo behind and around you?_ _ _ _

____Stay calm, Lalonde. Do the trick. With the mirror. With a shaky hand, you pull out a compact from your pocket and hold it up, pretending to check your nonexistent makeup. You angle it stealthily so you can see if anyone’s behind you. Just a little more to the left and…Nothing. There’s nobody there. Did you imagine it?_ _ _ _

____Was it Dave again?_ _ _ _

____Of course it wasn’t. Hope against common sense. Why would he follow a crazy lady who knows his name? You’d think it would be you following him. You’re just making things up. There probably wasn’t even anyone behind you! Probably just your shoes echoing. Your soft-soled converse, echoing like a pair of business shoes._ _ _ _

____It was nothing. Nothing at all, nothing to worry about. But… Your hand snakes to your flask’s pocket, just in case._ _ _ _

____A hand grabs your shoulder._ _ _ _


	11. rumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its think time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha its been a while huh

Your knife slips out of your hand as you whip around to face your attacker with a startled yelp. It clatters against the stone brick to your left, echoing throughout the alley. You bring your arm back to swing at whoever it is when you catch a flash of red.

It’s Terezi.

Dropping your hand to your chest, you gasp. “Jesus Christ, Terezi, you scared the shit out of me!”

She laughs one loud, sharp note.

“No, I’m serious! I thought you were going to kidnap me.”

“Me? I would never scare you. Not without good reason!”

She grins at you for a moment. You smile softly back. A beat. Her face falls, and she moves her head like she’s looking at something behind you. She takes a deep breath. “Look, Lalonde. I’m worried about you. After all that…” She trails off. “Are you… okay?”

Uh-oh. Alarm bells. You thought you were safe from friendly concern, but apparently? You thought wrong. “Terezi, I’m alright. Seriously. Don’t worry about me.” You put your hands up to placate her.

“Rose,” she starts. First reason for fear: she’s using your first name. “Rose, I have spent a very, very long time catching liars. I have done a fair amount of lying myself. I think you have too! _And _that you are probably a very good liar. Which makes me concerned, because that? That was an awful lie.” She takes a breath; a meaningful pause. Another reason. Her sensible leather shoes (adorned with tacks on the bottom, a fact you learned when she put her feet up on the break room table) sound with staccato beat, just barely filling the silence. She stops walking abruptly and with a stomp, a reverb-free cymbal. “So answer me again!”__

__You look into her eyes, glad that the dilemma in your features is invisible to her. What do you say? You ponder your answer as, slowly and subconsciously, you take in the fact that you are standing at yet another bus stop, staring slack-jawed into her face as every single alcohol-saturated cell in your body works on an answer._ _

__Of course, there is no question. It’s easy. Requires no thought at all. You’re fine._ _

__You tell her so._ _

__“I’m fine.”_ _

__She seems disappointed._ _

__You can’t fathom why._ _

__You are deeply and truly alright. Perfectly, totally, _completely_ fine. _ _

__Totally._ _

__“...Okay, Rose. Get some rest.”_ _

__She pats your shoulder with a concerned look on her face and boards the bus. You are left--again--alone in the dark. You trudge through the cold, empty streets, hands in your shitty polyester pockets, looking very much the dejected office worker. The soft green backlighting of your 20 dollar Timex shines onto the hour, minute, and second hands, displaying 1:07 in green-tinted inky dark--like a dried out “black” kid’s marker. It shines onto the gleaming plasticky-black sleeves of your jacket and onto the skin of your hand, both damp and glistening with the mist of the night._ _

__Wait. The dying glow of your 10-year-old watch wouldn’t be enough to even tint its hands, millimeters away, much less those of yourself. Which means…_ _

__As your drunk, sluggish mind plods through to the conclusion, the source of this conundrum interrupts your train of thought with a blinding greenish-white flash that leaves you seeing blood-red spots._ _

__Then noise, all at once. Voices, mechanical clicks, words that you don’t understand and a thousand things beside makes for a roar comparable to that of a jet plane’s._ _

__~_ _

__“That was a very dramatic exit,” Kanaya gracefully from the back you as you step onto the bus. You flop down next to her, pushing your fingers through your greasy, unwashed hair. You know you should respond, but you just can’t bring yourself to. To be totally honest-- something you’re used to-- you’re worried about her. I mean, that whole thing with some guy named Dave? Her fucking brother? Was their “strongest, biggest” drink fucking absinthe or does she just do that when she’s drunk?_ _

__“I’m worried about Rose.”_ _

__Kanaya’s silence prompts you to respond._ _

__“I mean, did you see everything there? She started talking about her _brother_ appearing _when she passed out_ , who I’m also pretty sure had fucking _died_ , and then did the most piss-poor job of acting like she was fine! And she did it again, and again, and again. Every time she looked less and less convinced and more and more just-- excited? Anticipating? She said she let it go but she really, really clearly didn’t. And she’s drunk as fuck! I have no idea how she gets home! I don’t really even know how far away her home is!”_ _

__Kanaya places her hand on your back. “Rose will be okay. She seems quite capable and she very clearly has a _lot_ of experience being drunk and getting home.”_ _

__You force out a laugh, but every muscle in your face feels like it has lead weights attached to it. You rest your head in your hands, staring at the floor. “I’m worried. We don’t know anything about her! I don’t know if it’s normal for her to see _dead people_ when she’s drunk! I don’t know if her mind is breaking in fucking half when we hang out or if she’s never been better.”_ _

__Kanaya bends down to your level, rubbing your back quietly. She’s the perfect listener._ _

__“I don’t know what to do, Kanaya. I’m so scared that she’ll just… break, right in front of us. And what if she does, and we can’t put her back together? What if she doesn’t _want_ to be put back together? Or fix herself? What do we do then?”_ _

__“We can traverse that trestle when we come to it. For now I believe it is best to attempt to be her voice of reason. Maybe then we can avoid her eventual shattering. And if that occurs we will do our best to be _both_ the king’s horses and the king’s men. Perhaps then we may prevail.” She looks at you with a comforting smile._ _

__“I hope we do better than they did.” You joke but without mirth. You lean your head back and close your eyes. Just to let them rest. Only a little while..._ _

__~_ _

__You wait 3 minutes past the point you think Terezi’s in dreamland, then settle yourself against the uncomfortable bus seat. Deep breaths, Maryam. Nobody ever fixed anything having a breakdown. You stare straight ahead, focusing on your reflection in the grimy bus window. Keep composure. As an elegant ice princess in one of your good friend’s favorite movies said: conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show. Even though Terezi’s asleep, you can’t risk the chance of her waking up and getting even more worried than she already is at the sight of your _un_ sightly prone, weeping form. You’re the mom friend here; _you_ take care of everyone, not the other way around. You don’t want to be responsible for anything worse happening; you’re the soothing balm applied to a wound. You try your damnedest to be the motherly type; the one everyone can turn to in times of need. You really, _really_ need to stay stable. Terezi and Rose need you to stay stable so you can keep them stable. It’s the way of the world: there are the carers and the carees. You’re one of the carers. Right now, Terezi is one of the carees. But you guess she’s a carer, too. She takes care of Rose. A carer and a caree in one._ _

__You lean back in your chair to contemplate this new discovery. You’d developed this dichotomy to separate you and Vriska; a fact you hadn’t realized was true at the time but over the years you’ve recognized as being so. You kept the idea around, though, because it still seemed pretty accurate. You had later allowed that people could switch between the two and had theorized that one could be at once vulnerable and secure, helped and helping, but never really thought it could happen until now._ _

__...Maybe this means you could finally let someone provide aid for you. You are not perfect; you know this deeply and truly but you figured that there were people less well than you and that you had to devote your energies to get everyone else around you higher than your standard before you could go out and actually get help, _and_ that that could _never ever_ happen because there would always be someone in pain, hurting--but now? Now, begrudgingly (because it will not come easy), you may allow someone to help you. Not yet, though._ _

__First, you must help Terezi and Rose._ _

__Terezi stirs slightly and makes the _cutest_ little grumble you’ve ever heard. She sounds like a little dragon and you just want to--wait. No, no, no. You squint and shake your head to get the thought out. You are _over_ Terezi, without a doubt. You’ve moved on to greener pastures, as they say. Or… well, purpler pastures. And anyway, now is no time for pining! You’re pretty sure you missed her stop while you were contemplating that new shift in your personal philosophy._ _

__“Dearest Terezi,” you say, rubbing between her shoulder blades. “I do believe we have missed your stop.”_ _

__She rubs her eyes and squints in the direction of your voice, mumbling groggily and flashing a half-hearted, sleepy smirk. You think it’s a joke about… something. Probably at your expense? Or maybe her own. You’re not sure, but she’s clearly not in the spirit._ _

__“I could walk you back to your apartment if you wish.”_ _

__“Thanks, Kanaya. You’re a real help.” She sighs._ _

__“Anything for the top justice-server in all of pseudo-medicinal space.”_ _

__Grimacing, she says, “Ugh, don’t remind me. It’s not even real justice! I mean, all I do is point at the fine lines and tell them we didn’t _really_ say it would work. It’s beating a dead horse but with different sticks and horses each time, you know?”_ _

__“No.” You pull her to standing and lead her off the bus._ _

__“It’s-- it’s the same action, just different circumstances. Different wording, different medicine, different complaint. No, actually, the same complaint. ‘It didn’t work.’ Yeah, no SHIT it didn’t work! It’s a bunch of oregano leaves and eucalyptus-sunflower oil or whatever the fuck binding agent pressed into a tablet with some mint flavoring to hide the lies!” She ends with a few sharp, sweeping hand motions, almost hitting a drunk guy._ _

__“Lies? I do believe that this exceedingly long tangent you just took me down was focused on the point that there are _no_ lies in the packaging of your delightful company’s non-fraudulent dealings.”_ _

__“Ha-ha. You know, for a motherly figure, you sure fit a load of snark in that tight bod of yours next to all that well-meaning advice and tough love.”_ _

__“Terezi!” You can’t help yourself. Amidst all the uncomplimentary and unromantic parts of that sentence you managed to pick out and isolate “tight bod” and now you’re bright red. Great job, miss I’m-Over-Her. In your flusteredness you also manage to trip over an upturned flagstone._ _

__She snorts out a laugh at your reaction, then turns inward after a moment. “My job’s the worst. You know, for a while, the only part of it I liked was lunch because then I got to turn in the quarter I worked on all day.”_ _

__“The quarter?”_ _

__Her tune turns more jovial.  
“Yeah, a quarter. I had a little mini set of, like, 5-dollar acrylic paints, a set of Sharpies, a couple tiny sanding blocks, and a quarter I would pick up during lunchtime the day before. Someone would always leave them in the booth I used, I guess? I would spend all day at my desk working on these little chunks of metal. It wasn’t quick, for sure. I used to just cut a little gash through whoever’s on there’s eyes. That’s all I did, for a while! But it got boring. Repetitive, you know? And that’s what I was trying to avoid with these. So I got the paints. It was tricky, doing the details, ‘cause I never got them in the right spots, no _clue_ why that could’ve been--”_ _

__You roll your eyes, cutting her off._ _

__“Are you rolling your eyes at me?” she asks indignantly._ _

__“How could you tell?”_ _

__“Sherlock Holmes’d it.”_ _

__“And what does that mean.”_ _

__“Well, my dearest Mar-wat-ston-yam..? I knew because you do _very_ bodily eyerolls.”_ _

__“Bodily.”_ _

__“Yes, bodily! You move everything about you when you roll your eyes. Reminds me of this friend I had in special kindergarten. You know, after pre-k for the gifted and blind, of which I was both.”_ _

__“Of course.”_ _

__“I know! Where was I?”_ _

__You try to remind her of her previous dawdle. “Quarters.”_ _

__“Oh, yeah! Uh… ok, painting… Blah, blah. When my break came ‘round, I’d take it to my table and hide it on the windowsill. Next day it’d be gone. I would spend the rest of the day doing jack shit and thinking about who took them. I always thought it was the janitor, just cleaning up, but a secret little part of me hoped it might be some person filling up a collection. Guess… guess I was right.” She flashes a small, wistful smile._ _

__“And you… stopped?”_ _

__“Yeah. I met Rose and... suddenly it wasn’t the best part of my day anymore, you know?” She stares off into the distance, then looks back at you._ _

__“Oh,” you say dumbly._ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__A moment of silence._ _

__“I hope she’s okay,” she murmurs, all humor drained out._ _

__“Me too,” you say softly._ _

__~_ _

__You stare up at your tastefully papered ceiling, hands laced together on your chest. You knew that Terezi had a crush on Rose. It was extremely obvious, but you guess it never really shot home to you? Like it was just another little romantic folly. Momentary infatuation. Like liking the girl who takes the same bus route as you. But you guess in this case you also become good friends with the girl on the bus, and also become privy to her most vulnerable moments? So really, the whole bus part was unimportant to the romance thing. Even though it was _so glaringly obvious_ that Terezi liked Rose in a true, genuine fashion, it never really registered… not until now, at least._ _

__You’ve been having a lot of revelations tonight._ _

__Terezi said that seeing Rose was literally the best part of her day. Like, enough to stop doing… whatever she had been doing for ages. Yes, you know that’s not much of a step up. It’s not really a big deal. Of course talking to a human friend would be more fun than putting a bedazzled quarter on a windowsill! But that doesn’t erase the significance it holds to you. Seeing Rose was the _best fucking part_ of her day. You’re not quite sure how to put into words the exact way that shifted your perspective. Hearing Terezi say that kind of rocked your world, to be honest. You’d been looking at it like it was a kindergarten crush._ _

__And even that misperception had you abandoning your feelings in favor of what you thought was another one of Terezi’s 10-second crushes? What does that say about you? You thought your feelings were much stronger than Terezis _yet you still decided it made more sense for_ her _to get the girl.__ _

__Oh boy. And let’s also think about what you _said_ on the bus! You were being normal and supportive and then she tells you that seeing Rose is the best part of her day, and like a baby that doesn’t know what emotional intelligence means you say ‘oh.’ Like some kind of moronic dimwit too short-sighted to see the joy in other people’s lives! That was a really cute and sweet (2x combo!) thing for her to say and you know it--you _knew_ it--and you decided that it would be better to say some unsympathetic, jealous-sounding bitch shit! _ _

__You bring your hands up to your face and smush it around, groaning. God. You’re an idiot._ _

__Sighing, you fold your hands over your stomach and try to remember what Karkat said the one time you broke down in front of him at a solstice party. You’re not an idiot. You are not an idiot. You’re pretty smart, actually. Maybe not the sharpest scissors in the kit, but definitely up there. Not stork level, but a new pair of orange-handled Fiskars? That’s you. You breathe in deep and try to calm down, doing something you learned in Girl Scouts before you got kicked out for cursing out one of the other girls for calling your sash uncouth. You flex and scrunch every muscle in your face, then relax them one by one, top down. You open your eyes, half-lidded, feeling substantially better, and roll over to look at Terezi._ _

__She looks so peaceful sleeping, a far cry from the stress she displayed on the bus ride. Just the sight of it relaxes you.You suppose that maybe, now, you could get to sleep. Sliding down your red-green swirly eye mask (a gift from Terezi), you settle in and close your eyes._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im the fucking MONARCH of making promises and immediately breaking them. yallve been super patient (thanks for that)! my mental health has kinda tanked lately in addition to really getting some hot hot homework, as an explanation for the lack of any new chapters. i'm happy to say im proud of this bitch, and im stoked to see what yall think!  
> the only reason you're seeing this now is because i promised myself i would get this out by christmas, which i've done! hooray!  
> i hope yall have a lovely christmas. if u dont celebrate, then a great break--and if no break, just an overall good life!   
> as always, tell me anything you want to see, anything you're tired of hearing about (i exercise executive control over suggestions), and anything you have questions about! love yall. mwah. hope u liked it


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